


Big Brutes and Frappuccinos

by your_token_trophy_wife



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Muggle, Anal Sex, Bad Communication, Blow Jobs, Football, Internalized Homophobia, Jealousy, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Social Media, as in marcus is a fucking idiot, but oliver loves him so it's okay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:34:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 34,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27251281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/your_token_trophy_wife/pseuds/your_token_trophy_wife
Summary: marcus flint plays for west ham and he is NOT gaybut oliver wood makes him feel things
Relationships: Marcus Flint/Oliver Wood
Comments: 74
Kudos: 141





	1. Freckles and Pink Lips

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marcus' POV

Marcus is doing alright for himself. He plays the game. Keeps himself fit, keeps up with the rankings and occasionally, he goes out for a pint with the lads. Not during the season though. Can’t be playing for West Ham and slack off.

He sticks to the bloody meal plan (when he wants to, that is) and he spends most of his time watching rival teams’ games, so he can improve his own tactics. Marcus lives and breathes for football. It’s really what’s to be expected when you have training four days a week and have matches two days as well - during season that is. There’s nothing else in his life anyway, except for his overbearing mother.

While most of his teammates have gone off and got married, Marcus is very much content with being alone. He’s twenty-six and he’s got at least eight years left playing ball, so there’s no hurry. He’s a centre-forward on a team in the Premier League. They might be ranked sixteenth out of twenty, but nonetheless, he’s making good money and can afford to live in central London. He doesn’t mind losing, as long as he gets to _play._

Today is another one of _those_ days - Marcus is as usual in a hurry to leave. Training has dragged out - it’s nine o’clock - and if he hurries home he won’t hear any spoilers about the Manchester City/Chelsea match. He showers, dresses and leaves practice without as much as a goodbye to his peers. He ignores the fans outside the stadium and hurries into his black SUV. He’s overworked, beaten and sore. Apparently management is pissed that they’ve ranked low the last four years and that has driven their manager to madness. The man’s a fucking nutter and Marcus isn’t really sure why he’s still their manager.

His body is spent and the first thing he does when he arrives at his apartment is crash on his leather sofa. He can’t be bothered with anything because Mondays are just dumb, so he digs his phone out of his pocket. He avoids opening any apps with football, too scared of any spoilers. 

He begrudgingly orders a large salad, because the meal plan doesn’t allow curries and Marcus is already “a bit too big” for an offensive player, according to the team physician. What a load of bollocks. Marcus’ size is his advantage. It’s his bloody trademark - the size and the anger.

He opens instagram to pass the time and then promptly grins at his phone when he sees the latest photo of himself. He’s tackling Diggory, the fucking prick from Brighton, and it just looks so cool. 

Part of the deal playing in the big leagues is all the social media stuff. Marcus only uses his instagram to stalk the opposing teams and look at birds. He doesn’t even _know_ how to make a story. So the team’s “Social Media Manager” (Marcus doesn’t really know what it is she does) has the password to his account and all his teammates' ones as well. 

_“It’s called fan-service, Marcus,” Pansy says, her sharp eyes judging him silently. “How do you expect your fans to keep up with you, if you don’t actually post anything?”_

Marcus knows that he doesn’t have many fans. He has around 40k followers which isn’t awful (he preferred if he didn’t have any, actually), but players like Viktor Krum have several millions. And Krum’s fan base is probably a bit more sophisticated than the West Ham hooligans.

The thing is, Marcus knows what kind of audience he has. He’s the most violent offensive player in the league and he holds the record for most red cards - which is not a good thing, really, but Marcus thinks it fits him.

He’s a hard man, a brute, and he likes it.

Marcus clicks on the ‘discover’ tab. Might as well look at some birds while waiting for his food. He doesn’t mind that this is what his typical day looks like. Occasionally his mother will drop in (unannounced), but usually, his days consist of an early morning run, breakfast, watching old games, lunch, training, avoiding Higgs and Davies, lounging about, and then dinner. Sometimes he gives in and goes for a pint with the two idiots, but Marcus isn’t really a social bloke.

Marcus hasn’t scrolled very far, when he suddenly sees a picture of a familiar face. Although it’s not quite the _same_ face, Marcus knows it’s him. He sits up and hunches over his phone. He squints his eyes.

It’s Oliver Wood. His childhood rival, only he’s not- he’s not really the same keeper Marcus remembers from Junior League. He’s wearing _makeup_. His eyes are painted (Marcus doesn’t know the term for it) blue and pink and something about bisexuality is on his cheek written in small, black letters.

Oliver Wood, the only real competition Marcus had back in Juniors, has an instagram account where he does makeup stuff. Marcus’ finger acts on its own and clicks on the account.

Wood’s grid is all selfies and it’s all rainbow colours. Marcus wants to close the app instantly, but his eyes greedily take the pictures in. It’s Wood posed in various sultry photos - close ups of his face and body, all freckles and pink lips. Marcus doesn’t really know much about makeup, but judging by Wood’s ridiculous number of followers, he must be good at it. The colours on his eyes are vibrant. There’s a lot of quotes on mental health and gay stuff. It looks like Wood’s become some sort of makeup artist and gay activist.

There’s a photo that Marcus isn’t even sure he clicked on, but suddenly it’s there on his phone. All big and bright. It’s Oliver Wood in _very_ tight jeans and a tank top, but he’s holding his leg up. As in he’s holding his toned leg over his head while standing perfectly perched on the other, casually holding an iced coffee in his other hand. 

Marcus feels hot. He scrolls down and another picture of Wood appears-

He’s shirtless in a bed. His arms are toned and his abs are visibly defined, but not too much. His chest hair is a small, sparse patch of brown curls. His pants are slung low, showing off his taut stomach, and he’s _glistening_ _._ Is it sweat? Marcus stares. Wood’s looking right at him, those warm brown eyes, almost dark with hunger. His lips are slightly parted, pink and they look _wet._

Marcus’ eyes linger on the photo. Oliver’s throat is long and slender, one of his hands resting artfully on it. On his hands Oliver has long, pink nails. Like the ones girls have. He blinks.

The other hand - also with pointy, pink acrylics - is strategically placed not too far from his chest, one long acrylic millimeters from grazing a pink nipple. Oliver’s nipples are small and delicate and-

Marcus closes the app. 

Marcus is not into blokes. You don’t get to play for West Ham if you’re gay. And he’s not some fairy, because he fucks birds. 

(Sometimes, he supposes. Rarely, if he’s being honest with himself.)

Marcus stares at the now black screen. It doesn’t make him bent to look at some random bloke’s pictures, does it?

His curiosity wins the silent argument in his head. It’s not like anyone would ever know that Marcus Flint looked at a gay bloke’s pictures.

He unlocks his phone again and scrolls through Oliver’s page.

All Oliver Wood seems to do is makeup stuff and drink iced lattes (Frappuccinos?) from Starbucks. The one at Regent Street to be specific. There’s several photos of Oliver lounging in the large lounge chairs, coffee in hand and mouth sucking provocatively on the straw.

Marcus has a hard time understanding why anyone would willingly go down Regent Street. It’s always busy and loud, people bumbling and stumbling into each other. Marcus tends to avoid anything crowded. He doesn’t typically get recognised, but when it happens, he’s quick to dolt.

Marcus doesn’t do photos with fans. He doesn’t even acknowledge them.

_“You’re a bloody arsehole, it’s your brand. Too bad your fans love it. Try not to make kids cry next time.”_ Pansy had said once after Marcus very unwillingly refereed a children’s game. He probably could have let them off easier.

Wood on the other hand, in his tagged photos, has hundreds of photos with fans. Mostly teenage girls and the occasional bloke. He’s smiling very brightly in them. He looks like he’s about the same height as Marcus, although 30 pounds lighter. He looks like a fucking model and Marcus hates it. 

In an odd fleeting sort of thought, it upsets him that Wood isn’t playing ball anymore. It would have satisfied him greatly to score against the keeper one last time, to see his pretty face scrunch up in frustration, brown eyes wide and wild, those pink, wet lips fall open in frustration-

The doorbell rings. Marcus groans and tosses his phone on the sofa. He gets up and makes his way to the door to receive his pathetic salad. He barely acknowledges the delivery boy, who’s gaping and staring at him - he just slams the door in his face.

As he puts the neatly-packed salad down on his industrial steel dining table (Marcus thought it looked nice, Higgs had laughed the first time he saw it) and readies himself to shove in some food, he looks at the phone again. Perhaps one last look wouldn’t hurt.

He retrieves the phone from the sofa and opens the phone again and notices the little multi-coloured ring around Wood’s profile picture. Is that what a story is? Deciding it wouldn’t hurt to look, Marcus clicks it.

It’s a picture of Wood and fuck-

Wood’s at the City/Chelsea match! It’s a selfie of Oliver Wood in a Manchester shirt, beer in one hand and again with the fucking nails - he’s winking at the camera, the stadion evident behind him. _“Imagine if @Krum would let me take care of him after his spectacular performance”_ it says in a bold pink font.

Marcus swallows his food and angrily shoves another bite in. Krum isn’t even good looking. He’s got a buck nose, beady eyes and his English is rubbish. 

The next story comes on - it says 18 minutes ago and it’s a selfie of half of Wood’s face. His head is on a pillow and his eyes are closed. _“Gonna call it a night. Going to dream about @Krum whisking me away to Bulgaria to meet his mum”_

Marcus scoffs.

He’s much better looking than Krum.

* * *

It’s Tuesday and Marcus wakes up at seven o’clock. He doesn’t have practice until one o’clock today and he makes a rash decision. He had kept dreaming about iced lattes and acrylic nails and now he’s finding himself strangely wanting a Frappuccino from Starbucks - preferably the one on Regent Street. It is the one closest to him anyway.

Marcus tells himself it had nothing to do with Oliver Wood frequenting the same one. It’s just a coincidence.

He showers and gets ready to dress himself, when he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He’s not _that_ big, just a tad too burly for an offensive player. He looks at his closet and decides there’s no point in dressing up for a coffee. So he puts on a pair of grey joggers (the kind he has at least five identical pairs of) and a black jumper (that he also happens to have three of). It’s August, but it’s a late summer this year so he knows a jumper will be fine for the English weather for now.

He can’t be bothered to do anything to his hair and he leaves his apartment with a tingling feeling, almost excited, eager.

Marcus lives in central London and it’s not a long walk from his flat to the Starbucks on Regent Street. The second he steps outside and his ears tune in on the morning chatter and traffic noises, he rues not getting in his car. He hates crowds -- actually, he hates people. He regrets not wearing a hoodie the moment he turns onto the busiest street in London. He hates the particular stares and the hushed whispers and when people actually point at him, Marcus wants to punch them in their fucking faces. It’s rude to point at others.

He walks briskly, fast even, looking straight ahead, not giving anyone a second glance. He’s just going to get the bloody coffee and leave. No lingering. 

After ten minutes - of literally shoving people out his way - he’s standing in front of the Starbucks. It’s busy, but not overcrowded. Marcus anxiously pulls the door open and steps inside. He feels sweaty, all of the sudden, like the coffee shop is a dangerous place to be. He looks around, eyes searching, but there’s no Oliver Wood in sight.

Good, Marcus thinks. (He’s not disappointed at all.)

He makes his way to the till and looks at the signs above it. It’s a bit confusing. Half the names aren’t even in English and what sort of sizing system is that? The dark-skinned girl behind the counter looks nice enough, looking up at him with large, brown eyes. Her dark hair is in hundreds of small braids, a green cap on the top of her head, and she’s got an annoyingly bright smile on her lips. 

“Welcome to Starbucks, what can I get you, sir?” It comes out impossibly sweet and cheery. Marcus wants to gag. Why anyone would want to be like that all day, every day, seems rather exhausting to him.

“Just give me one of those bloody Frappa-things,” Marcus sees the girl visibly flinch at his harsh tone and he can’t help but grin wickedly at her. She blinks rapidly and then proceeds to (rather rudely, Marcus thinks) drawl, “What kind, sir?”

“Uh,” he looks at the signs again, “Chocolate?” It comes out questioningly, like he’s unsure of his own answer, and suddenly he’s not intimidating anymore and the girl’s eyes twinkle with amusement. 

“Decaf or normal?” She then asks, a smirk forming on her face, and Marcus wants to yell at her that no one fucking walks into a coffee shop at seven-thirty in the morning to buy decaffeinated coffee. Instead he’s back in the game (because that’s apparently what ordering a bloody coffee has become) and raises his brow at her before he spits; “What the fuck do you think?” 

“Caffeine it is then. And size?” The girl is looking at him like she knows what size he wants, but the obvious sadist in her wants to annoy Marcus into throwing a fit. And he’s honestly about to. He wants to grab the stupid coin chocolates (what are they even _for_ , children?) in the box by the till and smush them in his hands and smear them all over her dumb face.

Marcus looks at her, eyes now burning, because he just wants to get the fucking drink and he grits out; “Large,” and then pulls out his card so he can bloody pay for the thing already.

“Whipped cream on top?” She’s actually grinning at him now and Marcus can feel his hands itching to push the cap she’s wearing down and into her face now.

“Fucking hell, woman,” Marcus exclaims, “Fucking no, alright. I just want to pay for the bloody thing.” He’s aware that two of her co-workers’ eyes are on him now and behind him probably several of the people in the café as well.

“Alright, alright,” she says and then has the _audacity_ to laugh at him, like _he’s_ the fucking knobhead here. “You’re lucky I know who you are, ‘cause I actually have to ask your name as well normally.”

Marcus just grunts in response and impatiently taps his card against the card terminal. It beeps and he lets out an exaggerated sigh. “We done then?”

“Yeah. Just take a seat, I’ll bring it to you.” She winks at him then and Marcus wonders if she’s lost her marbles - if that was her trying to flirt, it was very strange. He looks around the shop to find a seat and sees a large fluffy lounge chair in the corner - it’s half hidden underneath a fucking tree (that surely shouldn’t be inside?) and it’s facing the inside of the coffee shop, so it’s perfect. Not that he’s going to look at people or anything.

He’ll just stay for a while, he tells himself. He hasn’t got any plans before practice so he might as well try to relax. Perhaps answer some of his emails. If he has any that is. It’s not like he ever checks it.

He sits down in the ridiculously fluffy seat and grabs the morning paper on the table in front of the chair. There’s a picture on the front page of Krum grinning, one fist pumped in the air triumphantly. KRUM BREAKS CITY RECORDS, it says. Marcus hastily opens the paper to read the article. The match was indeed one for the books, Krum scoring three goals within the first fifteen minutes and then arrogantly playing defensive and slowing down his pace for the rest of the match, as if three goals were easy to do.

“Here you go, _sir_.” Marcus looks up and sees the girl from the till place a large plastic cup filled with a thick dark substance. Marcus grunts as an acknowledgement and grabs the thing. He sucks the straw hesitantly and oh-

The sugary drink is _addictive_. It’s sweet and chocolatey, but not too sweet and the coffee still powers through. He averts his eyes back to his paper and tries to focus on the article again.

There’s a lot of sounds going through his ears. The morning traffic outside, soft mumbles in the corners of the café and some irritating jazz tune is playing on the speakers. It could be very relaxing if it wasn’t for all the people in the café. The morning rush is slowly thinning out though and he manages to read the same sentence four times, before he hears a familiar scottish accent.

“Hiya Angelina, how’s my favourite girl?” 

Marcus’ eyes snap up. From his position in the far end of the café, he can see Wood from the side, entering through the glass door. He’s looking at the girl at the till point, waving. and it looks like they’re _friends_. As Wood nears the till, it’s too far away for him to hear anything, but he’s got a perfect view of the keeper.

He’s got a pair of grey fitted trousers, the kind that university blokes wear, the kind that looks _posh_ , and on his feet are a pair of classic white trainers. Wood’s wearing a t-shirt like it’s bloody summer and his short auburn hair is peeking out from underneath a stupidly American baseball cap. 

Marcus squints his eyes and notices that Wood hasn’t got any makeup on his face which makes him look oddly younger, fresh-faced. He watches as he chats with the girl, Angelina apparently, behind the counter. He’s smiling and gesturing wildly, eyes bright and clearly excited about something. If Marcus is just somewhat right, the former keeper is probably talking about last night’s match, fanboying over Viktor Krum like some ruddy teenager.

Something inside him churns and he feels himself straining his ears, wanting to catch a snippet of the conversation, but he casts his eyes downwards towards the paper, trying to appear disinterested and like he’s not listening at all.

Wood leaves after a good ten minutes, laughing with a Frappuccino in hand, chocolate flavoured like Marcus’ own forgotten one, the one that’s already turned into a half-melted mess on the small coffee table in front of him. The second Wood’s out the door, Marcus feels strangely hysterical and paranoid, like he’s done something he isn’t supposed to. 


	2. A West Ham Player in Starbucks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver's POV

Oliver Wood is living his best life. 

He didn’t make it to the Premier League, but he’s still in the English Championship and that’s alright. Oliver plays for Queens Park Rangers, he’s a keeper and he doesn’t have to hide who he is. He gets a modest pay (for a footballer) _and_ he has time to do his other hobbies.

Oliver didn’t plan on becoming a social media “influencer” (he doesn’t like the term), it just sort of happened. He had found out he was proper gay in Junior League and the make up interest came after his first pride. He’d always been good at painting his face for football matches and it was _fun_. Now, he’s got an Instagram and a Youtube account where he shares his different looks, occasionally reviewing products or ranting about things.

Oliver enjoys his schedule; he’s got practise four days a week and the other days he spends on his social media career and with his friends. He considers himself to be a socially conscious influencer and takes pride in enlightening young people about the lgbtqiap world. He’s only the eleventh openly gay football player to come out in England and even though he isn’t on a very famous team, his fanbase has grown very large. Percy calls it enormous, but Oliver always reminds him that it’s practically nothing in comparison to Percy’s brother, Charlie, who’s got _millions_ of followers.

It’s Tuesday and it’s his day off. Oliver is laying in his bed, considering what to film today. He’d seen the Manchester City versus Chelsea game the evening before and he’s still riding a high. Football’s always given him a rush, a lingering tingling feeling in his gut. It had been a good match, Krum stealing the show as always.

Oliver chuckles softly to himself. He’s always found Viktor Krum to be attractive, buck nose and all, and even though he’s never met him in person, Oliver tags him in all his fanboy posts. He could get lucky, after all.

He isn’t proud of his particular taste in men - in all honesty, Oliver has a tendency to levitate towards big, strong, masculine and oh- perhaps the most cliché, not gay at all. Oliver likes to think it’s because he likes a good challenge.

But perhaps it’s because he likes to torture himself.

Oliver grabs his phone and goes through his notifications. It’s a ritual now and he’s used to waking up to at least a hundred of them. He’s turned his messaging off for non-mutuals - as much as he’d like to be supportive of all the young gay teenagers that write him, he doesn’t have the time or patience for it.

He wonders if perhaps Krum has seen his stories (he never does) and goes to check his viewers. The view count is at sixty-two-thousand and two-hundred-ninety-five. At the top of the list is all his mutuals; his friends, others from the community, makeup artists, a few celebrities and then right underneath his mutuals, the first name says;

Marcus Flint.

Oliver’s breath hitches in his throat and he stares at the name. Could it be?

His finger almost shakes with anticipation as he clicks the name with the little blue tick.

Marcus Flint is in the Premier League, which isn’t very surprising at all. Oliver remembers him from Junior League, the teenage boy had played aggressively and so focused, like nothing could stand in his way. It didn’t do much good that the brute had a constant smirk on his face and his confidence was so high it seemed arrogant. The first time they had played each other Oliver had been 15, still lanky and awkward, while Flint was already in ridiculous shape for someone in their mid-teens. When he had scored against Oliver, the ball flying past his head so fast he barely had time to react, the larger boy had laughed at Oliver’s stricken face, a barking, harsh laughter, and told Oliver to use his “pretty little head” next time. 

So he did. In the three years of Junior League, Oliver played the big beast a total of twenty-two times. Most of their matches were just friendly, for practice, but their rivalry was anything but friendly, in fact, it was rather violent. Flint had a tendency to throw himself at the ball or anyone in his way - and for the most part that was Oliver. He’d been tackled hundreds of times, even had the occasional head bump with other players, but with Flint it was always worse because of what came after. The laughing or the taunting from that ridiculously ugly mouth; “Shouldn’t you be in little league?” or “A keeper’s supposed to be _guarding_ the goal, not faffing about, you knobhead” or the worst of them all; “You’ll never make it to Premier League, you loser.”

In an odd sort of coincidence, he was probably also the first man to make Oliver realise his own sexuality. It had been a ground shaking, mind blowing revelation, really. Oliver didn’t know he was bent back then, his head full of football. Sure he’d kissed a few girls, but it never took his interest - all the snogging and shagging wasn’t relevant when there was _football_. He trained every day, all day and he was always the last to leave the pitch. Only one day, during a match, Flint had crashed violently into him on the pitch, while trying to get the ball past Oliver. And something unexpected had happened.

In a flurry of limbs, Flint’s heavy, strong and rough thighs had been tangled with his; skin to skin in their football shorts, and a flat stomach had rested against his and his nose was filled with a masculine, musky scent combined with sweat, grass and sandalwood. Oliver had just lied there, flat on his back, two-hundred pounds of solid muscle crushing him and a mean face inches from his. Flint’s eyes had gone wide at realising their position looked more passionate than unintentional and _of course_ , to all the surrounding teenage boys it was absolutely hilarious.

It had lasted less than ten seconds. The laughter around them made Flint jerk his face away from Oliver’s in a hurry and push himself off his body as well. He had spat at the grass (not too far from Oliver’s face). He hadn’t even helped him up, he just barked something at his team, before running off to his position again, shoving a few of Oliver’s teammates out the way.

For Oliver however, those ten seconds ruined the remainder of the match. There was something about the strong body on top of his, that he couldn’t forget. Something about Marcus Flint’s scent, the sharp grey eyes, the strong, lopsided jaw and the sharp black hair had made Oliver out of breath and flushed from the tip of his toes to the top of his head. He hadn’t been able to focus properly for the rest of the match and he let the older boy score against him twice. (Of course he would never admit to that openly.)

It never happened again though. A few months later when Oliver’s team met Flint’s, Oliver’s was so hopeful, so excited - only to find out Flint wasn’t in Juniors anymore. He had already been signed off with some team in Ireland.

Oliver checks his next story, the one of himself in his bed, and of course, he’s seen that one as well. What does it mean?

He clicks Marcus’ profile and goes through his photos. It’s all football. Oliver smirks to himself - _of course_ , it would only be football. There’s various pictures of Flint tackling several poor blokes and even more photos of him on the field in his West Ham Jersey.

There’s even one where Marcus is shirtless, grinning wickedly at the camera, mud and grass splattered across his legs. Oliver stares at the photo for a while, mesmerized at the sight.

Marcus Flint is even _bigger_ than back in Juniors. His shoulders are broad, arms enormous, and his abdominal muscles are so _defined_ . His chest is scattered with short, curly black hair. His arms are huge, hands even bigger - almost comically large, and his teeth- well, his teeth are just horrendous, but it is what to be expected of an Englishman. It is rather odd he hasn’t had them fixed, but it _does_ make him look even rougher, in a troll-like, caveman sort of way.

His hair is cut short and practical, but the fade on the sides make him look like a South London boy, all sharp angles and mischievous eyes. And fuck, those eyes. They gleam mischievously, almost _naughty_ , and Oliver realises that he is definitely still fascinated by the big brute.

* * *

The first time Oliver notices Flint in his usual Starbucks, it’s because of Angelina’s extraordinary habit of not shutting up, bless her. The morning rush is almost over and as usual, she’s not very interested in actually doing her job, just enthusiastically chatting away about Premier League rankings to Oliver, gesturing wildly as she talks.

“-and of course, West Ham are absolute bollocks, oh right, I probably shouldn’t say this too loud.” Her voice drops and her dark eyes twinkle, “Marcus Flint’s been coming here for the past week. He’s sitting over there in the corner!” She makes a funny half-wiggling gesture with her head to indicate the area.

Oliver’s heart beats so hard in his chest now that he feels nauseous. He casually turns his head towards the corner of the coffee shop and oh-

Flint is sprawled out in a large, fluffy armchair, looking ludicrously out of place. His face is buried in his phone and there’s a scowl on his face, like he just received bad news. He’s wearing joggers and a matching sweatshirt, pristine white trainers on his feet, looking every bit like the athlete he is, just lazily lounging in public. Even though the armchair is big, Flint still looks _enormous_ in the chair, his huge hands curled around his phone that looks possibly miniature in them.

“Angelina,” Oliver starts, his voice oddly broken and quiet, “I might need you to message me every time he’s here, aye?” Angelina’s eyes widen and she nods aggressively, eyes flickering to Flint.

“Of course, Ollie, er- is everything alright?” She tilts her head questioningly and Oliver can’t help but grin, his eyes full of mirth. 

“I think he fancies me.” He whispers and then he watches as Angelina’s face scrunches up in confusion, before he continues, “he’s been stalking my social media for a _week_. We used to play against each other in Juniors, you see. I mean, I dunno- he’s not gay, I think.”

“I’ll keep an eye on him for you,” Angelina says, handing him his beloved morning beverage, smiling softly. “Maybe I should put in a good word for you, he always orders from me.” She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively and Oliver lets out a short laugh.

“Oh, don’t you worry, Angie,” he says as he takes his first sip of chocolatey goodness, “I think I can manage all by myself.” He winks at Angelina and lets the straw rest provocatively in his mouth (which he may or may not pout excessively to accentuate his lips.)

He knows Flint is watching him now, he can sense the man’s gaze on him as he gives Angelina a short wave. As he pushes the large glass door open, he tosses a quick glance towards the centre-forward in the fluffy chair and oh--

Flint casts his eyes down into his phone so fast, his face growing redder by the second and Oliver can’t help but smile to himself as he leaves. Marcus Flint isn’t suave or subtle at all. 

* * *

After three days of receiving texts from Angelina every morning alerting him that his “stalker” or “one true love” is sulking around the coffee shop, Oliver starts making an effort for the West Ham player. Although he was already sort of doing that. He might have been posting a tad more provocative photos on instagram and he’s been more active than usual. He doesn’t want to assume Flint watches his videos as well, but he _hopes._

He starts by wearing makeup in the morning, which he doesn’t usually do, but it’s all worth it just to see Marcus Flint staring at him in awe. Their not-quite encounters are now up to four and Flint’s definitely aware of Oliver and vice versa now, but this morning is something else.

Oliver’s done a soft smokey eye, using brown and red hues, his lips are painted nude and he’s wearing his tightest black jeans and a plaid shirt. It’s the perfect mix of masculine and feminine and it doesn’t matter that a street vendor mistook him for a woman earlier. Oliver doesn’t care as long as he _feels_ good. Anyone who doesn’t think so, isn’t worth his time.

As he saunters - yes, he saunters - into the shop, he feels a familiar pair of grey eyes resting on him. As he gestures to Angelina to make him his usual Frappuccino - it might come off as arrogant to anyone watching, but Angelina knows what today’s plan is - he inches toward the magazine stand. (The stand that might have been moved only for the sake of _the plan_. Oliver doesn’t know what he’d do without Angelina.) The magazine stand that is now only a metre or two from Flint’s chair. 

He looks at the magazines contemplatively, like it’s difficult to pick something and leans down, purposely giving Flint a view of his arse in skintight jeans. He pretends to find the two magazines on the bottom row interesting - perhaps OK! and House & Garden aren't exactly the popular choices, but it’s all part of the game. Oliver grabs the House & Garden magazine and straightens himself out in a slow, graceful way (he hopes), accentuating his back. He makes sure to turn a little sideways so he’s almost facing the brute straight on.

He opens the magazine and tries to keep his face neutral while feigning a general interest, but he can’t help himself. His eyes skim over the top of the page and land on Flint, who’s-- 

Flint is looking at him. Actually, he’s staring at Oliver rather plainly, his eyes wide and there’s something comical about the way he can be compared to a deer in the headlights, his face so openly dumbfounded and obvious.

Oliver can’t look away and he instinctively licks his lips. He doesn’t miss how Marcus’ eyes follow the movement, before he averts his eyes to the paper he’s reading.There’s an interesting patch of red forming on his neck and Oliver wants to lick it.

“Here you go, Ollie.” His fantasy is ruined as Angelina’s hand comes into view, holding a fresh Frappuccino for him. He grabs the plastic cup, completely distracted by the sight of his former rival squirming uncomfortably in his seat.

“Thanks Angie.” He says absentmindedly, still staring at the man in front of him, who’s now furrowing his brows in concentration at the paper in his hands, as if it holds the answer to all of his questions. He hears Angelina sigh exaggeratedly beside him and he can almost _feel_ the rolling of her eyes.

“I’m off then. Might spend the whole day at Selfridges, spend all my hard earned monies,” Oliver tries jokingly, hoping Flint might finally say something, do something, just bloody make this strange morning rendezvous ritual a little clearer--

Alas, nothing. Flint’s still looking - no, glaring - at the newspaper. Angelina snickers beside him before she goes back behind the counter. Oliver gives her a glare in return, as he puts the magazine back on the stand. He casts one last look at the athlete, before he slides next to the counter.

“He’s not much of a talker,” Angelina whispers quietly, “I could’ve told you that. He’s down to grunting at me or Alicia when he orders, because he assumes we know his order already. Which we do of course!” She laughs at the end, before wiggling her eyebrows suggestively, “It’s precious though, him ordering the same thing as you and all that. It’s meant to be.”

Oliver lets out a gasp - a small one, mind you - and peers back into the corner of the café. On the small wooden table in front of the bulky man, there’s a plastic cup identical to Oliver’s except it’s almost empty. Flint’s still hiding behind his paper.

“Do you think he watches your videos?” Angelina asks, completely ignorant of the queue forming by the till. Oliver envies her ability to be so carefree - it’s a wonder she hasn’t been sacked yet, but then again, he muses, she’s the sole reason half the customer’s are here. No one’s as cheery and welcoming as Angie.

“Aye, I reckon he does, but I don’t know,” Oliver answers truthfully. There was a time where he would’ve paid good money to see Marcus Flint watching makeup tutorials on Youtube. “I can’t just bloody ask him now, can I?” he continues, the frustration starting to build.

“Well, he just left, so I think you’ll just have to ask him next time.” Angelina grunts, looking at the door, rolling her eyes ridiculously hard. Oliver turns and sees the paper and the drink abandoned on the coffee table, his former rival nowhere in sight.

He lets out a sigh and nods to Angelina, who’s already making three lattes all in one go. He waves at her, as he turns to leave and mutters, mostly to himself; “I suppose I’ll have to take the first step, then.”

* * *

Oliver has been looking forward to this particular morning, but for once, Marcus Flint isn’t looming in the corner of the busy coffee shop. Angelina didn’t message him this morning, but his curiosity got the better of him (and his ridiculous need for sugary drinks) and he still came. There’s no brooding, lurking figure in the lounge chair under the large plant and Oliver is _disappointed_.

He’s done an orange-pink eyeshadow that is blended to draw out his eye in a cat-eye like shape. He’s wearing the Fenty Gloss Bomb™ on his lips and he got new rainbow-coloured, pointy-as-fuck acrylics to match. His cheeks are dusted pink and his highlighter is so strong it sparkles in the morning sun.

Oliver ignores an elderly lady’s stares as he grabs his Frappuccino from the counter. He knows the booty shorts are a bit much, but he just wanted those grey eyes raking over his arse one more time. The thing is, Oliver _knows_ that Flint has been eying him up and he’s absolutely positive that Flint is aware that he knows. Why else would the West Ham centre-forward be occupying the busiest Starbucks in London?

Not to mention the idiot bloody-well saw all of his IG stories for the past week. He didn’t even bother to use a fake account and for some strange reason, among the thousands of accounts on the list of viewers, ‘MarcusFlint’ with a little blue tick had been at the top. Although there was no follow from Flint, which could only indicate _one thing_.

Flint is stalking him and Oliver is absolutely sure Flint wants _something_ from him. Oliver’s fairly sure that something is either in Oliver’s pants or the brute wants to beat Oliver to a bloody pulp.

He sips his Frappuccino slowly and silently wonders if Flint’s ever been with a man before. Oliver’s done his research. When googling Marcus Flint it’s mostly football, a few interviews - but less than expected - and only one blasted article about his private life. There’s hundreds of articles raving about Flint’s endless fouls, articles mentioning his drive, his determination, but the single article not about football - in The Sun of all places - is about Flint punching someone in a nightclub a few years back. Even in the humongous encyclopedia that is the internet, there’s not one picture of Marcus with female company.

He turns towards the door and pushes it open with one hand, still deep in his thoughts. He’s got a lot of things on his schedule today as it is, so perhaps spending it in Starbucks waiting for his teenage dream isn’t a particularly smart move. As he walks out and turns left, the great brute is standing right in front of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's gonna be a long one
> 
> at least 10 chapters
> 
> if you wanna beta, hit me up


	3. Illegal shorts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marcus POV & Oliver POV

“Uh.” 

Marcus just stares at Wood like he’s a bloody idiot that doesn’t know how to express himself. The younger man stands in front of Marcus, oblivious to the busy Londoners around them, pushing past them on the pavement in the morning hurry. He’s holding a Frappuccino and it looks like he’s not going to move anytime soon.

His chocolate brown eyes are focused on Marcus. He's got different hues of pink and yellow on his eyelids and his lashes are jetblack and long. His cheekbones are shiny in the morning sun, skin flushed and there are small freckles splattered across his nose. His auburn hair is sort of mussed up and Marcus wants to touch it.

His lips are parted and they’re so _glossy_. He's probably wearing the Fentu? Fenti? Lipgloss that he talked about in his latest video (not that Marcus watched it or anything).

“Hiya Marcus.” Wood's words are calm and collected. The way his own name sounds in that thick recognisable Scottish accent, makes Marcus feel things. He feels strange, hot and bothered. The calm aura of Wood is upsetting. He probably knows Marcus has been looking at his arse- no, him.

Marcus can feel himself clenching and unclenching his hands like a fucking imbecile. He isn’t panicking at all, it’s just that Wood’s a little too fucking much of everything.

“Er. Uh. Hi.” Marcus’ eyes dart around the street and he can’t help but think about Davies from the team who lives a couple of streets away in those fancy new apartments. Does he frequent this Starbucks? Didn’t Davies play in the Junior League as well? Does he know Wood? More importantly, does he know that Wood is gay?

Marcus should probably leave. Get away while he can.

“Whatcha up to?” Wood has somehow stepped even closer while Marcus was (not) panicking and is now peering curiously at his face. He’s a little shorter than Marcus and he smells like fucking _strawberries_.

“I have to go.” Marcus blurts out. He really shouldn’t be anywhere near Oliver, especially not in central London. Higgs lives here too. If Higgs came around the corner and saw Marcus with Oliver, he would never hear the end of it. And he doesn’t need that kind of attention. He’s a centre-forward and if he wants to be a captain one day, he can’t afford rumours.

But his legs aren’t moving. He's just standing there gaping at Oliver, like he hung the bleeding moon. Oliver Wood, who somehow after a week of not-quite encounters has become Oliver in his head.

At realising his own thoughts, Marcus' expression changes to one of sheer horror. Oliver raises a brow again and smirks as if he can read Marcus’ mind. He’s probably amused by Marcus’ existential crisis.

Oliver lifts his hand - and bloody hell, his nails are disgustingly long and pointy and they’re rainbow coloured - and then all of sudden, the hand is on Marcus’ arm.

Marcus stares at the hand, offended at the warmth coming from it. It’s not a particularly big hand, but Oliver is, in fact, touching him. In the middle of the busiest street in London. In front of people.

“Okay,” Oliver drags the word out and after a brief pause, he continues, “how about you walk me home? We could catch up for a bit. I was going to film my skin care routine and then I have practice after.” The hand on Marcus’ arm is now moving up and down reassuringly, like he needs comfort. Oliver's eyes are bright and inviting and he’s smiling softly at Marcus. Marcus feels like he’s going to _explode_. 

The hand is still there, just resting softly on his arm. 

“Practice?” He blurts out and it doesn’t really come out the way he wants it to. It comes out half-choked, half-strangled and Marcus isn’t sure why his voice is suddenly ten octaves higher.

“Yeah, I still play. Not in the Premier League like you, but I am in level 2.” And then he winks at Marcus, black long eyelashes fanning over his cheek for the briefest of moments. His tone is friendly and cheeky which is ridiculous, because they aren’t friends. They haven’t conversed in years. 

Marcus' face is probably very red now. It definitely feels hot.

Oliver plays football. Oliver that is openly gay and does makeup stuff and wears pink and has fucking acrylic nails. And he’s in the English Championship.

“Come on then, we can chat while we’re walking.” Oliver's hand drops and brushes against Marcus’ hand. 

Marcus snatches it away as if he burned himself and sees the way Oliver flinches for a second, before the keeper lets out a soft sigh.

“We don’t have to do anything, Marcus.” Oliver says softly. His eyes are soft and tender, regarding him with an obvious sense of sympathy, like Marcus is a child and needs reassurance.

“Uh, I don’t- I’m not-” Marcus doesn’t know how to express himself properly. It’s like he’s taken a ball to the head, because he feels dizzy, overwhelmed and everything around them seems blurry. A man pushes in between them, no doubt in a hurry to get to the tube.

“Sod it.” Oliver says, the disappointment evident in his eyes, and takes two steps past Marcus. 

Marcus turns to look at him and he really shouldn’t have.

His eyes rake over Oliver’s slim body and down and oh-

Oliver's shorts should be illegal.

They are tiny and that’s the only way to describe them. Marcus’ eyes are stuck. The ridiculously small, blue shorts are cut off just below Oliver's arse. The fabric is tight and stretched and Oliver's arse is so round. It’s round, plump and Marcus wants to pinch it. Or perhaps, bite it. He wants to-

“Are you coming or not? I don’t have time for this, Marcus. I’m a wanted man.” Oliver drawls, lips quirked and eyes twinkling.

Marcus doesn’t think for a second.

“Yeah.” 

* * *

**OLIVER POV**

Marcus Flint is most likely having an identity crisis.

At least that’s what Oliver thinks.

Marcus purposely keeps a meter between them as they walk down Regent Street. His eyes keep darting towards Oliver and he seems nervous. The hustling Londoners keep walking through the gap between them and Oliver just wants to hold his hand, wants to reassure him, wants to calm him down, wants to hold him-

He’s suddenly back to being sixteen and the thought of touching any part of Marcus is overwhelming. 

Marcus is built like bloody Hercules. He's only got a little height on Oliver, but he’s about 30 pounds heavier and it’s all muscle.

His legs are longer than Oliver's and his thighs could probably crush Oliver's head. His arms are huge and bulky and could probably lift him, bench press him, hold Oliver up while they’re fucking. Could probably also bend him in obscene ways-

And his hands-

Long, thick fingers, nails bitten short, veins prominent and they are about as big as Oliver's entire face.

Oliver just _wants_.

Instead he lazily sips his Frappuccino (trying to remain cool and composed) and casually asks; “So what’s it like playing in the big leagues? Folks must be throwing themselves at ya.”

Regent Street is - as always - incredibly packed. People are pushing against each other and somehow Marcus is suddenly right next to him, his shoulder almost touching Oliver’s, mumbling under his breath.

“Sorry, I didn't quite catch that,” Oliver says and glances at Marcus.

Marcus' stormy grey eyes meet his begrudgingly. His hands are shoved deep in his pockets and he’s hunching his shoulders like a teenage boy as they walk, head hung low like he doesn’t want to be seen.

“‘S alright.” Marcus grits out through his teeth. Like it is hard to say, like it’s hard to talk to Oliver. 

Oliver narrows his eyes at feeling the hostility coming off Marcus. With the amount of tension between them, it’s hard for him not to feel how the other man seems disinterested, irritated and grumpy.

“I didn't force you to walk with me, Marcus.” He says, rather carefully. God knows if his temper is as bad as back in Junior League.

Marcus lets out an odd noise that sounds like something between a groan and a sigh.

“I know, alright?” It comes out harsher than Oliver expected and he flinches for a second, coming to a halt, before he continues walking. Marcus just keeps his eyes on his feet again and continues to walk. “‘S just weird.”

The last bit is so quiet, that Oliver actually feels his own heart skip a bit.

Oh Marcus- the poor brute is so deep in the closet, he can’t even walk next to someone as queer as Oliver. Oliver wants to hold him and kiss his entire face and tell him how much it doesn’t matter.

“In a minute or so, we’ll be at my flat. You could come up for a cuppa?” Oliver asks as softly and quietly as he can. He doesn’t try to touch Marcus, but his hands are itching to reach out and stroke Marcus’ face.

And oh God, his face-

Marcus' grey eyes are wide and those red patches on his neck are back. His thick brows furrow and his jaw (that is so sharp, it could cut a tree in half) is loosening and his mouth opens as if he’s about to say something horrible. He catches a glimpse of the still-crooked teeth. Oliver can feel the anxiety coming up - although homophobia isn’t as bad as before, it still exists. And Oliver knows not to wake a sleeping dragon.

“I can’t- ‘s fucking-“ Marcus’ hands are out of his pockets now, fist clenched as if he’s going to punch something. As if he’s going to punch Oliver.

Oliver decides it might be worth a punch to take a chance on the poor fellow.

He purposely throws his Frappuccino into the nearest bin as they walk. Marcus is looking like he’s about to explode and his steps are faltering. They’re not too far from Oliver’s flat - they’re halfway down Brook street and in five minutes they’ll be in front of the heavy, black door he knows so well.

As they turn around the corner, Oliver grabs Marcus' right arm. (and bloody fucking hell, he can barely get his hand halfway around it.)

Marcus freezes, but he doesn’t pull away. Oliver’s street is very quiet and mostly consists of elderly rich ladies and the occasional business man. It’s rather quiet this morning, so not one notices Oliver hastily dragging the bigger man beside him. Marcus is spluttering, but walking along nonetheless, confused and surprised at Oliver’s force.

He pulls Marcus towards the door to his flat and fishes his chip out of his shorts.

“What the fuck-“ Even though Marcus seems outraged, loud and angry, his body is surprisingly willing and easily manhandled by Oliver. He kicks the heavy door open as soon as it registers his chip and pushes Marcus inside. 

The door shuts behind Oliver as he hastily steps inside. He leans against the door, head tilted back and lets out a large sigh.

“It’s just you and me now. No one’s looking. I’m on the first floor, come now.” Oliver holds out his hand. Marcus seems a little calmer, the red spots on his neck gone, but he’s staring at Oliver’s hand like it’s poisonous.

Oliver knows Marcus will bolt out the door if he doesn’t encourage him, calm him down. Oliver's heard stories. Gay men falling in love with men suffering from internalised homophobia, having to deal with the constant fear, jumpiness and irrational behaviour. Being together for years without ever going out in public. Never being affectionate. No holding hands, no dinners, nothing remotely resembling a loving relationship.

Oliver doesn’t want that. 

But Marcus is something else. Marcus is the boy who made sixteen year old Oliver feel something other than the thrill of the game for once. He’s also insanely fit, all muscle and tall - the teeth might be horrendous, but Oliver finds them rather charming.

And while Marcus isn’t reaching out to take his hand, he hasn’t punched Oliver in the face either. So Oliver decides to be brave once more.

He carefully steps closer to Marcus and peers curiously into the grey orbs. Marcus’ pupils dilate, the black dot growing, overpowering the grey ring. He looks positively barbaric and untamed, like a wild animal caught.

Oliver ignores Marcus’ heavy breathing and takes both Marcus’ hands in his carefully, not missing the way Marcus’ breath hitches as their hands touch.

Marcus’ hands are rough skinned, calloused and they are surprisingly warm. Oliver looks down at their hands and carefully intertwines their fingers. Marcus’ breathing slows down again and Oliver can feel that this has somehow become oddly intimate.

They stand like that for a short moment, both looking down at their hands and the contrasts between them. Compared to Marcus’ hands, Olivers seem small, stubby almost, even with his nails elongating his fingers. The brute’s hands are rougher than his, but not by much - Oliver is a keeper after all.

Oliver smiles, a soft tentative smile, at the taller man and tugs him towards the grand staircase. He releases Marcus’ hands as he takes a step on the old, stone stairs. He doesn’t dare look back, but he can only hope, yearn for Marcus to follow him.

When he’s halfway up, he hears footsteps on the stairs. He smiles to himself.

Oliver turns left after climbing the stairs, heading determinedly towards his door. He reaches it and slowly opens the door with his key. He glances over his shoulder and sees Marcus hovering in the hallway, looking at the door curiously.

Feeling anxious all of sudden, Oliver kicks off his trainers and walks into his small kitchen. He decides to try to be a good host and pulls out two glasses and fills them with squash from the fridge. His hands are shaking a little and he feels oddly out of place in his own home. He grimaces as he peers into his cupboard and all he has to offer is an open bag, half-full of crisps. His mum would have a cow if she knew he was offering a guest stale crisps.

As he’s filling a bowl with the sad crisps, he hears the door slam shut behind him. Surprised at the force, Oliver turns to look at Marcus in the small hallway, who’s peering carefully into his living room. 

Oliver loves his apartment. It’s small and cozy; the hallway is a sizable square and holds his impressive collection of trainers, neatly lined up against the wall. His jackets and coats hang on an old wooden coat stand, he found at a flea market with his mum. The wall next to the bathroom door is filled with polaroids he’s taken of himself, his friends and his teammates. Feeling Marcus eyes on him again, he breaks the silence.

“I know it’s not very big, but it’s an old building and I like living in central London. Shame it’s so bloody expensive, aye?” Oliver says, as he leans against the counter. Inwardly he wants to cringe at his attempt at small talk, but the other man isn’t saying much and all Oliver wants is for the tension to go away.

“So who do you play for?” It’s the first real sentence Marcus utters out loud and it comes out gruff and nonchalant, like Marcus wasn’t just having an identity crisis. As if he wasn’t just ashamed of being seen with Oliver.

“Let’s go sit,” Oliver ushers him towards the blue velvet sofa in the living room, putting the glasses and the crisps on a tray, before following. He sets the tray down on the glass table in front of the sofa, as the larger man settles in the blue velvet. As he sits down next to Marcus, he feels him shift uncomfortably, like he’s too close. “I play for QPR, I know it’s not the best team, but they accept me for me. And it means I still have time to do all my other stuff.” He grins and scratches the back of his head casually.

“.....they know ‘bout you?” Marcus blurts out, grey eyes widening like he’s shocked.

“Why wouldn’t they?” Oliver asks challengingly with his chin up, not letting the other man affect him. 

It’s a peculiar sight to have seen West Ham’s famous hard man getting red so often and it’s happening again now.

“Dunno… It’s just, the game, you know?” He mumbles, looking down at his enormous hands. Oliver’s gaze shifts to them and for a brief moment, he wonders how those hands would feel on his hips.

“Actually,” Oliver starts in a factual manner, “I’m the eleventh football player to come out in the UK. There’s only four in the Premier League, but I suspect there’s more. With all the talk about fair play and no prejudices, I’ll give it a year or two, before more start coming out.” He smiles at Marcus, cheeky and boyish, before continuing; “I just hope Krum is one of them. He’s fit.”

It’s a rather pathetic attempt at testing the other man, but to his satisfaction, Marcus turns even redder and there’s a tick in his jaw.

“Krum?” His heavy brows narrow and his grey eyes harden. He looks strangely offended. “What’s so special ‘bout him?”

“Krum’s strong, he’s ruthless - a bloke can only dream,” Oliver flutters his eyelashes dramatically at Marcus, before continuing, “I’ve got a type. He fits it. I like my men to have a bit of character. Preferably combined with the big, muscular look.”

“Right.” Marcus mutters. He grabs the glass closest to him and gulps the squash down in one go. He looks rejected, almost like his team just lost the match of the year. Oliver is pretty sure he can feel his heart grow twice the size.

“I think the perfect man for me would have to play football, probably a centre-forward, so he’d be part of all the real action, aye? He’d have to really get it, you know?” Oliver says, eyes twinkling. “And then of course, tall, dark and handsome. Definitely dark hair, blondes are too much work. And big hands. I _love_ big hands.”

He purposely purrs the last bit while looking at the hands in question and proceeds to give Marcus a playful wink. The football player stares dumbly at Oliver, like he doesn’t quite get it and then Oliver gets to pinpoint the exact moment Marcus eyes widen and his Adam's apple bops as he swallows and looks down at his hands. Normally, Oliver wouldn’t hesitate to let his affection be known - his parents raised him to be honest, after all - but something about Marcus' rather slow uptake is making his heart sing. He wants to make more naughty comments about Marcus, he wants to-

“I should go.” Marcus’ voice comes out strained and he’s purposely not looking at Oliver again, instead his eyes are darting across the room, no doubt taking in Oliver’s colourful taste in decor. The pink wall behind them stands out in contrast to the blue elements in the room; the sofa, the vase in the window and his beloved framed Prince poster. The rest of the walls are white, but Oliver’s found a beautiful teak bookcase to create a masculine contrast to the feminine sofa and pink wall.

“You’ve said that already.” Oliver moves closer to Marcus, moving his legs under himself, knees now touching the side of Marcus’ thighs. It doesn’t go by him that Marcus’ right hand is clenching the sofa arm tightly, while the left is already balled up into a fist by his thigh. He looks at the larger man, eyes curious and silently leans in, purposely putting himself into Marcus space.

As he lifts his arm gently and places it on the back of the sofa deliberately and delicately, careful not to jostle Marcus too much, although Marcus senses it immediately and tenses up, his back straightening and the knuckles on the hand gripping the arm rest are now almost white against his tanned skin.

There’s a tick in Marcus’ jaw again and he’s purposely staring into nothing, not acknowledging Oliver. Oliver can smell the other man and is suddenly taken back to their early days, taking in the same notes of sandalwood and grass.

Oliver sits there, facing Marcus’ side, while Marcus’ eyes are firmly on Oliver’s Prince poster, eyes burning into the musician’s like they’re having a staring contest. 

“Marcus, look at me,” Oliver whispers, voice so low it almost cracks.

The other man lets out something between a sigh and a high-pitched squawk. His eyes shift to Oliver at his side, but his head stays firmly in place. Somehow, it feels like time has slowed down and all Oliver can hear is his own heavy breathing.

“I-” As he’s about to say something to ease the tension that’s clearly on the other man’s face, he turns his head.

His stormy eyes meet Oliver’s no doubt wide ones and time stops for a second. Oliver finds himself leaning in, his face only a few centimetres from Marcus’ own. He can feel the brute's excessive breathing on his lips and he can’t help but notice the way Marcus’ eyes flicker to his lips.

He’s _so close--_

And then the other man abruptly stands up, almost knocking over the glass table. He looks at Oliver for a short moment. His eyes are wide and he looks visibly upset.

“I’ve got to go.” His words linger in the air, the silence after them thickening and Oliver desperately hopes for more - a “see you” or something, but Marcus is already moving towards the hallway.

“I guess I’ll see ya!” Oliver calls out bitterly and the only response he gets is his front door slamming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, my updates might be slower during december, i have exams :(


	4. Fantasies and French Cottages

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Marcus' POV

It’s Marcus’ day off and it’s a dull, grey day outside. He grumbles to himself in annoyance at the bad weather, irritated that he isn’t able to go for a run. As he waits for his morning coffee to brew, he lazily scratches his stomach, contemplating what to do for the day. Per usual, Higgs has texted him (as he always does on days off) and is asking him to meet up with Pucey, Montague, and some of the other lads from Marcus’ old boarding school and as always, Marcus isn’t in the mood.

He grabs his coffee, hot and steaming from the insanely expensive machine and plonks down on the sofa. His mind wanders as he sits with the mug warming his palms, clutching it a little too tightly in his hands.

He had tried to act indifferent and not let Wood’s blatant flirting affect him too much, but it was hard, even though he knew the other man was just trying to rile him up. It had felt like they were back on the pitch in their teenage years, Wood smirking and being cocky and Marcus being just as easily irritated as he had been back then.

He takes a gulp of his coffee, the warmth and the familiar taste, comforting him. He’s not upset, he’s just a little shaken up. The almost-kiss-

The almost-kiss _did_ things to him. _Oliver_ had been all doe-eyed with his lips parted and the way he said Marcus’ _name_ did things to him.

He’s not in denial or anything, it’s just a lot. It’s all a little overwhelming and he’s not quite sure where to go from here. He’s _looked_ before - it happens when you’re twenty blokes faffing about in the locker room, but the unspoken rule of not _talking_ about it has always been upheld.

He’s not sure if he finds the general man attractive. Marcus has fucked girls - not many, but enough to know that he’s not particularly picky. He’s more of an arse man, though.

Perhaps it’s his curiosity or perhaps it’s the strange tingling sensation he’s been left with from his encounter with Oliver Wood, but he finds himself reaching for his laptop.

If anyone ever could have guessed what Marcus would be doing on his day off, this was not it. In a moment of weakness, he’s opened Oliver’s Youtube channel on his laptop. He’s already seen a few of Oliver’s videos, but now there’s a new one. “Skincare Routine” it says and Marcus can’t _not_ click.

The video starts and it’s Oliver on the screen in a tank top, facing the camera, barefaced and freshly showered. He’s smiling and talking energetically and then the video cuts to Oliver in the bathroom, a side view of the younger man standing by his sink.

Marcus can hardly breathe, mesmerized by the young man on the screen before him. Oliver’s in those dumb shorts again and he’s only wearing a tank top, showing up his lean body and toned arms. He’s talking excitedly, showing various products to the screen. He leans over the sink to wet his face, slathering a “cleanser” on his face, the white foam covering his entire face. He continues on blabbering about its functions and after a few moments, he washes it off his face. He then proceeds to take a step closer to the camera, his face almost too close to the camera and then he blows a kiss to Marcus- er, the camera.

Marcus watches the entire video, oddly fascinated. At some point, he swears he recognises one of the creams, identical to one he’s seen in his mother’s bathroom.

The screen eventually turns black, and Marcus is forced to take his eyes off. His feelings rapidly change from fascination to utter frustration.

So he finds more videos. He finds a lot more, and it seems like Oliver picked up this interest ages ago.

Slowly, Marcus finds himself falling into an endless loop of beauty videos. Of Oliver creating various colourful makeup looks, his brown eyes focused on the camera and then there’s even a workout video that Marcus never should have clicked. He's never seen anyone bend in those arrangements ever before, but now he wants to see it in real life. He wishes he had paid closer attention to Oliver back in Juniors, wishes he had tried to actually talk to him then.

Time ticks, and an hour passes. Oliver’s voice is now echoing in Marcus' head after watching countless videos. He lets out a loud, shaky exhale as he feels a strange wave of arousal coming over him. Oliver’s face comes to mind and the memory of the day before is playing on repeat.

Oliver’s hands in his, Oliver’s hand on him, Oliver’s face close enough to his-- 

Oliver’s soft breathing, the warmth of Oliver’s exhales against his own skin. Oliver’s amber eyes, soft and wanting, his parted lips always looking so _wet._

Marcus doesn’t even notice his prick hard at first. He’s staring into nothing, transfixed on the memory of Oliver.

He hasn’t even touched his cock yet, but it’s already straining against his pyjama bottoms, and then Marcus slides his hand inside to wrap around the hot, sticky-smooth length of his erection.

He thinks about Oliver in the various bendy positions and his cock leaps eagerly in his hand. His eyes are half-closed and all he can see is Oliver bend over his dining table, Oliver on his knees, Oliver with his legs behind his head--

Marcus finds a rhythm, pushing into his own hand and wondering if he can hold Oliver’s weight, perhaps against a wall-- and then a shuddery slow build of pleasure threatens to spill over at any moment.

He has to hold back, because he’s getting close and he doesn’t quite want to admit it, but he doesn’t want it to end. He grips the base of his cock and waits for the urge to die down. Then the image of Oliver is suddenly in his head, an image he has no idea where came from; Oliver with his head tipped back, mouth open in an obscene “O”, gasping, begging and perhaps he would even moan his name and, oh fuck.

Marcus comes immediately after. He doesn’t mean to moan as loud as he does, but somehow he couldn’t help it.

He looks down on himself. There’s cum on his pyjamas, he feels hot and sweaty and it’s fucking pathetic is what it is. He shakes his head at himself and makes his way to the bathroom for a shower and maybe a nap. It’s his day off after all.

* * *

When Marcus wakes up, it’s because the kettle is on and he can hear his cupboards being opened and closed. In a confusing state of grogginess, Marcus sits up and rubs his eyes. He should be alarmed, but the only other person who has a key to his apartment is his mum and as expected, he sees the small, lithe woman standing in his kitchen.

“Hey mum.” Marcus mumbles, lying back down on the sofa, not bothering to get up.

“Slept well?” His mother’s voice, demanding and authoritative, cuts through the room. Marcus can hear her making him a cuppa; the water being poured, honey being stirred with a silver spoon and a splash of milk plopping into the cup.

“Mmm,” Marcus hums, lazily stretching his body on the soda, toes poking into the armrest and arms hanging off the other end.

“Darling, I came by to talk about the Cottage in Marseille. I’m not quite sure what to do with it. It was never my favourite, you know.” His mother makes her way to the sofa, gracefully balancing a tray with two steaming cups of tea and a plate of biscuits that Marcus is sure she’s brought with her all the way from Surrey.

“So?” Marcus sits up, allowing his mother to take a seat beside him, and hastily grabs a cup from the tray as soon as she’s put it down on the coffee table.

“Well, a little after your father died, your aunt Nigella asked to buy it, God knows why, but I don’t see why not,” His mother sips her tea with her lips pursed, looking elegant as ever. Her hair is in the same hairstyle she’s had for as long as he can remember. The sleek brown hair is slicked back into a tight bun, centered on the back of her head. Marcus doesn’t like to think about it, but his mother is starting to show signs of age - small fine lines on the sides of her eyes, smiling lines around her mouth and her hands are not as slender and smooth as they used to be.

“Honestly, Marcus, are you even listening?” Her grey eyes, so much like his own, are sharp and piercing him with the same glare he used to receive on the regular as a child.

“Sorry, mum,” he mumbles, looking into his tea. He’s aware of their estate and all the things that come with being _posh_ , but he’s never taken a fancy. Most people don’t even realize his boarding school background, his parent’s wealth or the silly etiquette classes he’s had (that he’s never actually used). “Don’t see why it matters, just do _whatever_.”

“Well, I came to ask you if you want it. Perhaps it will be a nice getaway for you and your future wife. You’re twenty-six now, love,” She tuts and him and gives him a small smile. “I _do_ want grandchildren, you know.”

“Please shut up,” he mutters with a mouth full of biscuit. He doesn’t even want to think about the day before, he doesn’t need his mother to know _anything_ about Oliver Wood.

“It would be nice with an addition to the family,” she sighs. She lifts one of her dainty hands to his face and Marcus notes that her nails are perfectly manicured as always. She cups his cheek and her eyes soften. “I know your father wasn’t keen on letting you pursue football. All I want is for you to be happy. Perhaps find someone to share your life with.”

“Mum, I’m fine- I mean- I _am_ happy. I’ve got my dream job, nice flat, fancy car and all that.” He’s not sure why he feels the need to convince her. He _is_ happy. He’s got everything he ever wanted. He thinks about his car, the sleek, black Range Rover sitting in the garage underneath his building. He gestures to his shiny kitchen to emphasise his point. His flat _is_ nice.

“You sound like your father. You have _things_ ,” his mother’s stern expression is back and she puts down her cup with another sigh. “It’s your day off and you’re _sleeping_ ! Why don’t you spend some time with Terrence or Adrian from school? Or perhaps, I _should_ get in touch with Narcissa. She’s signed Draco up for this thing where they match you up--”

“Fuck off--”

“Language!” His mother shrieks, eyes wide, clutching her cup to her chest.

“Mum, just— I’m not— I’m interested in all that.” He mutters and purposely leaves out the part where he’s pretty sure Draco Malfoy is the biggest poof he’s ever met and that everyone except Draco’s mum knows. He also leaves out the part where he might be in a similar situation.

“Is there someone?” His mother’s face changes; she raises her brows and her eyes twinkle mischievously.

Marcus scoffs, but he can feel the back of his neck getting hot. He’s _not_ thinking of Oliver.

“Oh darling! I’m so happy for you!” Marcus flinches at his mother's loud howl. Her voice has turned shrill, possibly ten octaves higher than before. She’s getting teary eyed and suddenly Marcus really wants to go for a run - never mind the rain and shitty weather outside.

“For fuck’s sake, no alright?” He cringes at the volume of his own voice, knowing that his mother can see right through him. Oliver Wood is not at all _someone_ and Marcus is definitely not about to have this conversation with his mother.

“I want to meet her, Marcus. I won’t push you, but I prefer if it could be before I die,” she sulks dramatically, feigning sadness.

“Let’s talk about something else,” he mumbles, feeling very put out and embarrassed. 

His mother sighs and rolls her eyes. She takes a sip of tea again, peering curiously over the rim of the cup. “Will you at least introduce me, when you’re ready? It’s been rather lonely without your father, you know. The house is getting a bit too big for me.”

She puts down her cup and takes Marcus’ hands in hers. In her hands, his hands look extraordinarily large and clumsy. He knows his mother well enough to know that she is nowhere near lonely and she spends most of her days with her friends in the Charity and Bridge club. It’s just a ploy to get him to move back to Surrey and he’s not taking the bait.

“Mum, stop it. You and I both know that the old berk dying is the best thing to ever happen to us,” Marcus scolds. “At least he didn’t leave me with the business. Would’ve run it into bankruptcy.” He adds, giving his mother a lopsided smile.

“I suppose you’re right, love,” she agrees, “The club’s just been terribly boring and Surrey’s become a town for pensioners, just lazing around in their gardens, putting their noses in everyone’s business.” She tuts at the last bit, rolling her eyes.

Marcus lets out a laugh. “Mum, you’re a pensioner and _you_ put your nose in everyone’s business.” His mother waves a dismissive hand at that and he hastily adds; “Especially _my_ business.”

“Oh, do shut up!” His mother huffs, but her eyes are twinkling now and she lets go of his hands. “I wouldn’t be in your business, if you bothered to share your life with me, darling. I expect to hear from you about the cottage. I’m not too keen on having to do business with your aunt Nigella. I’m absolutely sure that woman’s mixed up with some crooked people. I always wondered where the money came from.”

“Probably the same people father used to work with,” Marcus says darkly with a mouth full of biscuit.

“Yes,” his mother sighs and they sit for a little while, enjoying the complete silence together.

Marcus doesn’t spare his late father much thought. His father had been as posh as one could expect; always rambling about society gone mad and with an everlasting hate for anything out of the ordinary. When Marcus had been accepted into Juniors, his father had called it a mere “phase” and insisted that Marcus would grow out of it. He never came to any of Marcus’ matches which had only motivated Marcus even more. Dealing with his father’s criticism for the entirety of his childhood had made him thick-skinned and dedicated, eager to prove the old man wrong. When his father had died of the most common thing — oh the _irony_ — a heart attack, Marcus didn’t feel particularly sad.

It was his mother that was his drive, after all. His mother who’s still sitting posed as elegant and ridiculously posh as ever, next to him his smart leather sofa. His mother who’s taken him to matches, even though she hated the commonness of it. As she likes to refer to it, Premier League was a bit like watching the working class’ version of Wimbledon. All loud and aggressive, the overwhelming smell of pints being poured and chips being chomped.

Marcus likes it. He likes the screams, the songs and the massive gatherings — he even likes the occasional riots and the fighting. He’s not allowed to participate of course, but it doesn’t stop him from watching.

When his mother gets up from the sofa, she puts everything neatly back on the tray and carries it to his kitchen. Marcus doesn’t even object, knowing his mother’s ability to fuss about the smallest things.

“I think I’ll pop down to Selfridges and spend some of your father’s hard earned money,” she says as she loads the dishwasher. 

“Good idea,” Marcus says, grinning at his mother.

“Oh darling, I wish you’d get those teeth fixed.” His mother scolds. She’s looking at him from the hallway now, her luscious fur coat on her shoulders. Marcus briefly wonders how many mink had to die for it. “Remember to call me, love. See you and good luck with your match next week!”

He grunts in response and lies back down on the sofa as the door shuts closed behind her. He picks up his phone, the one that lays forgotten on the coffee table and his fingers instantly goes to click the instagram icon.

He’s not following Oliver and he has no intention to do so, but the younger man’s name is already the first to pop up in the search bar. He groans at the sight, slightly embarrassed at his own desperation.

It doesn’t stop him from clicking Oliver’s name though.

There’s a story of course.

  
And Marcus clicks it, because his fingers betray him and maybe, _just maybe_ , he has no sense of control if it’s about Oliver sodding Wood.


	5. Sliding into his DMs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver POV & Marcus POV

It’s been two days and Oliver hasn’t heard anything from Marcus.

But _of course_ the hulk of a man has seen Oliver’s stories, but there’s not a single like, follow or message.

Not even a bleeding accidental double tap.

Oliver lounges on his sofa, desperately refreshing his notification page, hoping for _something_.

He thinks about inviting Marcus to one of his matches, but he knows he won’t show up. He considers inviting him to dinner, knowing that there’s no way Marcus sodding Flint would ever show up. He knows Marcus has training today (he might have googled the West Ham training schedule) and he also knows that the brute usually “goes home to relax” after, because he might also have found an interview with Marcus in FourFourTwo. It didn’t take him several hours to dig up information on his former rival, no, not at all.

The thing is, Oliver wants _more_ . He wants Marcus on him, over him and under him. He wants to see those grey eyes darken with hunger, with _want_ , with passion-- He wants those big, calloused hands on him. He wants to put his own hands in Marcus’ hair. He wants to rake his nails down his back. He wants to--

Oliver just wants to _tease_ Marcus.

He considers sending him a naughty photo. Not that Oliver’s ever done it before (he’s a public person after all), but the idea of giving Marcus a taste of what he’s missing, is driving Oliver mad. Perhaps a naughty little photo could sway him in the right direction.

He then considers if it’s better to just talk it out with the grumpy football player. Have an honest conversation about the man’s obvious internalised conflict, maybe get him to acknowledge that there’s a lot of work to be done. A lot of work on the whole physical bit - just being able to touch the poor sod. Not that Oliver minds their odd encounters in the coffee shop or the strange forty-five minutes in his apartment, but it’s very clear that Marcus Flint has some internalised homophobia and Oliver isn’t sure how to handle it.

Oliver does the first thing. 

* * *

Marcus is in the West Ham changing rooms at London Stadium. It’s right after practise and it smells like a teenage boy’s room in the clinically white changing rooms. Their trainer, Moody, (he couldn’t have had a more fitting name) is gesturing wildly and talking loudly in the middle of the room, completely ignoring his players’ obvious fatigue.

Marcus isn’t really paying attention and by the look of his teammates, neither are any of them. Moody’s ranting about their last match and how defense had done fuck-all, when his phone vibrates.

He looks at his mobile phone curiously and sees a notification for a message from Oliver on instagram. (Marcus didn’t even know you could message people on instagram)

It’s a picture.

Marcus looks to his side, where Higgs is clearly very invested in their trainer’s words, and decides it’s safe to look.

He tilts his phone towards himself, ensuring no one can see his screen. He really doesn’t need questions about why he’s receiving messages from Oliver.

As soon as the photo opens, Marcus instantly regrets his decision. It’s a picture of Oliver’s _very_ round arse. The small pink hole is visible from below, like it’s about to lower down on Marcus’ face, surrounded by the lavish curve of Oliver’s cheeks.

Marcus flies up from the bench, elbowing Higgs in the process who lets out a yelp, and startles every single person in the room. His eyes are wild, his face burning, and there are at least ten sets of eyes staring at him in confusion.

“What is it, Flint?” Moody bites, his eyes still wild from his rant and his chest heaving.

“I- I gotta go. Uh. Now.” He doesn’t wait for a reply and rushes out from the room and towards one of the guest bathrooms in the long, plain hallway.

He rips the door open and shuts it after himself, almost frantically locking it. Marcus takes a deep breath and leans back against the small sink attached to the wall. His hands are shaking and his cock’s already half-hard. 

He opens up the picture again. As he stares at his screen, his mouth floods with saliva while he reaches down to knead his cock through his joggers. A message suddenly follows the image and Marcus nearly drops his phone in his surprise.

_I just couldn’t help myself._

Marcus yanks his hand away from his prick and growls under his breath, forcing himself to relax, to calm down. He doesn't want a George Michael-like situation, getting caught wanking himself raw to some bloke’s arse in a bathroom. How embarrassing.

_I kept thinking about how much I want to sit on your face._

Marcus feels strange. His entire body’s humming with want and he keeps staring at the picture of Oliver’s plump arse. Why is it so fucking _round_?

_How much I want to ride your tongue for hours._

“Hours?” Marcus breathes. He doesn't even know if it’s the same as going down on a girl, but the idea of Oliver’s perfect arse on his face is making his entire body feel like it’s on fire.

His breathing is nowhere near steady now, he’s touching himself again too, hips straining up, the head of his cock pushing up into the narrow circle his fingers are making. There’s precum fucking everywhere, his balls are hurting and Marcus hasn’t felt this aroused in years.

_I just want to be wet, loose and ready for your cock._

“Fuck” Marcus murmurs to himself, balls drawing up - he comes in his own hand after three pumps, the pleasure so intense he almost slips and cracks his head open on the sink. He cleans himself off using the sandpaper-like toilet paper and shoves his phone down his pocket. 

He doesn’t reply to any of Oliver’s messages.

* * *

Two days later, Marcus is eating a boring chicken salad and drinking fucking cucumber water at some hipster café in Camden, because Higgs insisted to go there. It’s not often he actually spends time out and about, but Higgs and Davies kept pestering him about coming.

So Marcus had decided to go. Of all his teammates, Higgs and Davies are the only ones he can tolerate in small doses. It’s not that Marcus doesn’t have _friends_ , he just doesn’t have the time and he finds social events boring and often it’s all just a waste of time. Of course, he’s known Higgs since primary school, but it’s not like they were ever close. Higgs just sort of followed Marcus everywhere he went and now they’re on the same team, because Higgs got sold from Leeds when he didn’t score any goals for a whole season. Idiot.

“Did you see the email Parkinson sent out? ‘Bout the bloody galla thing.” Higgs says, his eyes rolling so hard they should have gotten stuck that way. Marcus snorts into his salad and Davies nods enthusiastically.

“We never get invited to these things, it’s going to be mental! Imagine meeting Charlie Weasley or Viktor Krum-” Roger’s eyes are comically wide and he looks like a child, the excitement evident on his face. Terence holds up a hand to cut him off and says; “You’ve already met them on the pitch, mate. Don’t see what all the fuss is about.” 

“Yeah, but still, it’s different when you can actually have a pint and a laugh with them, no fans or journalists in sight.” Roger huffs out and then proceeds to look at Marcus, “You’re coming, right?”

“Dunno, don’t really see why,” Marcus replies nonchalantly and the truth is, he _doesn’t_ . He doesn’t want to see Krum, who Oliver Wood has some ridiculous obsession with even though he obviously isn’t gay. He doesn’t want to get his photo taken and he _hates_ the damn reporters. He’s not even sure his team is invited in the first place, it’s not like they’re nominated for anything. He says the last bit out loud to his mates.

“Maybe they’ve done an award for most red cards,” Terence snickers, eyes gleaming at Marcus.

Marcus smirks in return.

“Or maybe they’ve done an award for least goals scored. Ever. In the history of football.” Marcus retorts back and Roger bursts out laughing.

His phone vibrates in the breast pocket of his jacket. He absently reaches for it as he takes a swig of the disgusting cucumber water and nearly chokes when he opens the message.

“Oi!” 

Marcus doesn’t even know what’s happening, but before he knows it, Terence has got his phone in his hand and is making large eyes at the screen.

Roger leans over from where he’s sitting next to Terence, to see the picture that Marcus barely got a look at himself. Roger snickers and smirks at Marcus, the amusement evident in his eyes.

Marcus knows it’s too late. They’ve seen the picture: an artistic shot of Oliver’s stomach, seen from the side, the deep, excessive curve of his back and the ridiculous swell of his ass, all miles of pale skin, riddles with brown moles, every inch of him soft and inviting.

Marcus snatches the phone from Terence's hand and in a fit of rage, he stands up. 

“Is that-” Terence starts.

“Fuck off.” Marcus growls, eyes burning and shifting between his fellow team mates. “If you ever mention this to anyone, I’ll fucking kill you both. Strangle you with my bare hands.”

Marcus doesn’t pay attention to his mates’ shocked expressions. The only thing in his head is that his career is over. The career he worked so hard for. Marcus might be having a mental breakdown.

In a moment of frustration and agony, Marcus just stands there, staring into nothing, phone in one hand, the other clenching and unclenching in rage, completely forgetting his mates and the people in the café. He’s angry, mad and mortified and nothing is _ever_ going to be the same. They _know_.

“Mate, it’s alright.” Terence's voice barely gets through to his head. Marcus is stuck currently in a whirlwind of thoughts. It isn’t legal to fire someone for being gay, is it? Maybe he could say he thought Oliver was a girl, what with the long nails and the ludicrously round arse. The stupid eyelashes and the makeup and what sort of bloke smells like strawberries anyway?

“Yeah, I know Oliver, we used to play in Juniors. He’s a nice bloke.” Roger says, blue eyes twinkling mischievously and _now_ , Marcus pays attention.

“What?” Marcus replies dumbly and he _really_ doesn’t like the way Davies is looking at him.

“I know Oliver from Juniors,” Roger repeats slowly, “one of the best keepers I’ve ever played. He’s a good lad. Easy on the eyes too.” Roger laughs at the last bit and fucking _winks_ at Marcus, like it’s no big deal.

Marcus sits back down in the booth. He folds his arms protectively against his chest, before he stares at Roger. He’s not really sure why it’s bothering him so much, but-

“Did you fuck him?” Marcus half-mumbles and he’s not sure he wants to know, but it’s Davies and it’s _Oliver_ . Roger isn’t even _gay_ . He’s not sure if he’s _okay_ with it.

“What? No. He’s a mate.” Roger laughs again, like Marcus is a fucking idiot for asking, and then continues “I just meant, I can see why- I mean-” he rolls his eyes, “He’s fit. I get it.”

Marcus’ face feels hot and he can’t help but sneer in his own defence. “I’m not bloody gay.”

Both Roger and Terence give him an odd look, before looking at each other. Davies sighs.

“Right then.” He then gestures with his hands to Terence, as if it’s his turn to speak. Terence sighs and rolls his eyes exaggeratedly.

“Well, if you were, it’s cool, man. You know that, right?” Terence says very carefully, like he’s talking to a fucking child, and all it does is anger Marcus even more.

“Sod off, I’m leaving.” This time he doesn’t hesitate to actually walk out. 

“Who knew? All you have to do to bag Marcus Flint, is slide into his DMs!” Terrence calls after him, breaking into laughter with Roger.

Marcus ignores them and pushes the door open, fuming. He walks out onto the street and angrily starts walking towards Regent Street. Oliver’s flat is about 25 minutes away on foot. 

He’s going to go there and tell Oliver to sod off too. He’s going to tell him he’s not interested and it was all a mistake - that Marcus Flint isn’t a fairy.

Marcus doesn’t need this. Even if he is gay, he knows while West Ham wouldn’t fire him, they certainly wouldn’t renew his contract either. And then there’s the sponsors - they’ll drop him in an instant. While Charlie Weasley is openly bi-sexual, plays for Barcelona and has all the best sponsors, Marcus isn’t important enough for them to care about seeming “anti-gay” or whatever. He’s on one of the worst teams in the league. He doesn’t get that kind of attention.

He knows. It’s just not a possibility for him. Football and being gay don’t mix.

He’s storming down Regent Street, ignoring the occasional points and whispers, he’s so agitated that he doesn’t even think about checking if Oliver’s home or not. He supposes he can always wait it out outside his apartment.

He just needs to make it go away.

* * *

As luck would have it, Marcus spends about 5 seconds pressing the door phone before he’s let in. He sprints up the stairs, almost tripping over his own feet in his hurry. When he reaches Oliver’s door, he bangs it so hard that Oliver probably will get complaints. It doesn’t bother Marcus. He’s here to finish this ridiculous thing.

“You need to fucking leave off, yeah?” is the first thing Marcus says when Oliver opens his front door. 

“Is this about the pictures?” Oliver asks bluntly and raises a brow at Marcus. He steps aside and gestures for Marcus to come inside. He’s not wearing any make up and his hair is sort of mussed up. He’s in joggers and a tank top. He looks like he just got out of the shower, all fresh-faced and _damp._

He closes the door behind Marcus and turns around with a raised brow, lips curled in a smirk and all it does is agitate Marcus further.

“Fucking-- Yes, alright?” Marcus yells and Oliver visibly flinches at the volume. Marcus doesn’t think about it. He crowds him in and suddenly Oliver’s back is against the door and Marcus is _very_ close. His head is spinning a bit and the fact that Oliver smells like sodding _strawberries_ is messing with his head.

“What in the bloody fuck do you think you’re doing?” Marcus yells again, his face only inches from Oliver’s face.

Oliver doesn’t reply. He just looks at Marcus with his stupid brown eyes, all big and wide. Marcus isn’t sure what’s going on now, because Oliver’s lips are parted and _so fucking pink_ \-- Is he panting?

There’s a pink tint on his cheeks and Marcus is pretty sure it’s not blush. Oliver’s eyes are searching and his hands are moving--

Oliver’s strangely soft hands - Marcus isn’t sure how that’s even possible with Oliver being a keeper - are cupping his face.

“Did you like them?” Oliver all but breathes the words out. His thumbs are stroking Marcus’ cheekbones and he suddenly feels very relaxed.

There’s a short moment where Marcus panics, not sure how to answer, because he _did_ sort of like them. He may or may not have wanked himself raw to the first picture.

He tries to steady himself, leaning back to maintain some distance between them, but Oliver goes right with him, into his space. Then, there’s a soft hand on the back of his neck and Oliver’s lips are on his.

Oliver’s lips are soft and he sighs into Marcus' mouth. There’s a few seconds of Oliver’s mouth moving over his while he just stands there like a numpty, before he decides to react.

He places his hands on Oliver’s waist and when Oliver’s warm tongue invades his mouth, he almost squeezes the air out of the other man. Oliver’s eyes close and he pushes himself closer into Marcus' body, one on the back of his neck, pulling Marcus closer, and the other ends up in Marcus’ hair, tugging at the strands.

Oliver moans _obscenely_ into his mouth and his eyes flutter closed.

It’s been a while since Marcus had kissed anyone and something neglected inside him wakes up; a wave of arousal courses through his body. His heart pounds behind his ribs and he lets out a groan and pulls Oliver closer. 

Marcus loses himself in their heated snogging and when Oliver’s hands start to wander, he feels his cock stir in his pants. He figures he’s already made it this far, so he lets his own hands slide down and onto Oliver’s arse.

And _fuck_ _,_ Oliver’s arse is the softest thing he’s ever laid his hands on. While Oliver’s tongue plays with his own, he experimentally gives it a squeeze.

Oliver lets out a high pitched whine, breaking their kiss, pushing his arse back into Marcus’ hands. 

“Yes,” he breathes, and his pupils are so big, his eyes now dark with want. His lips are parted, red and wet from harsh kisses and he looks at Marcus like he’s a bloody saint.

Marcus doesn’t think anymore. He hauls Oliver close, hands massaging the soft globes in his hands, rutting against the bulge in Oliver’s pants. His mouth lands on Oliver’s neck and it’s still _damp_ from his shower, no doubt and Marcus can’t help himself--

He nibbles on the skin, marvelling in how quickly it turns red and then he swipes his tongue over the red mark, just to taste it. It tastes like sweat, salty and tangy, but it doesn’t stop him. Oliver whines, his hands now gripping Marcus’ head firmly, clinging on to him like a man drowning, his nails digging into his scalp, almost ripping out his hair.

It’s not as strange as he thought, rutting against another man. Oliver’s bulge creates friction against his own and Marcus can feel his own joggers becoming damp with precome.

He’s about to devour the other side of Oliver’s neck, when Oliver - with a surprising amount of force - pushes him away. Marcus stares and is about to make a comment, when Oliver grabs him and spins them, so Marcus is against the wall.

Oliver then leans in, his chocolate brown eyes dark and wanting and then there’s a hand on his bulge. Oliver strokes him softly through his joggers and Marcus can feel it becoming too intense. It’s all too much, Oliver’s eyes, his lips, his fucking hands--

“Fuck, I-”

Oliver interrupts him, eyes twinkling mischievously. "Do you want me to suck your cock?"

Marcus breath hitches in throat.

"Uh." Marcus’s prick twitches in his joggers, embarrassingly eager. He bloody well knows Oliver can feel it, seeing as he has his hand pressed right up against it. 

"Yeah," he says, but it comes out in a sort of hoarse gasp, and then Oliver is dropping to his knees and nuzzling Marcus’s erection through his joggers, his lips parted and eyes closed as he rubs his face across the jutting bulge of it.

“Take them off." Oliver tells him, sitting back on his heels to watch intently as Marcus fumbles, shifts awkwardly and pulls his joggers down to his thighs. Oliver doesn’t blink as his cock bobs free. They both look at it, flushed a deep mauve, a fat drop of moisture already swelling at the slit, and somehow, having Oliver look at it – stare at it, as though memorising it – makes Marcus even harder.

Marcus feels light-headed, like he can’t catch his breath. Then Oliver puts his hands on Marcus’s thighs to steady himself, leans in, and lets Marcus’s cock slide between his lips.

Marcus feels the air leave his lungs in a long exhale. He stares, eyes focused on Oliver’s pretty mouth as he takes Marcus in, inch by inch. Marcus knows he isn’t small and Oliver doesn’t falter, just keeps going, taking him deeper and deeper, until Marcus is about to _fucking die_ from the feeling of nudging at Oliver’s throat with his cock.

Oliver pulls back, sucking along the shaft, slow and filthy. When he reaches the crown, he stops, his lips forming an ‘O’. He stays like that for a moment, looking up at Marcus from under long eyelashes, his expression one of absolute filth. Then, still watching Marcus’s face, he takes hold of Marcus’s hands and places them in his auburn hair.

Marcus’s fingers tightens almost involuntarily around Oliver’s hair, and he thrust forwards, groaning as fierce bursts of pleasure surges through him. Marcus stares down in awe, not able to believe his eyes as Oliver pulls his own cock out and starts to work his fist over his cock with obvious enjoyment. It’s like something from a dream, except this is _real_ , and a thousand times better than having a lonely go at his own cock.

Marcus’s fingers clutch desperately at Oliver’s head. Oliver’s eyes flutter closed in satisfaction and Marcus feels a twisted thrill of pride. He draws his hips back and starts to fuck into Oliver’s mouth, his movements lazy and rhythmic at first, but becoming less controlled with each thrust.

At first he tries not to go too deep, not to overpower Oliver, but quickly all inhibitions fall away and his only thought is to go as far as he can between Oliver’s lips, again and again, surrounded in tight, wet heat. It’s bewildering and intimate and fuck, it’s completely intoxicating to do this with Oliver, and Marcus doesn’t even try to hold back the groans that come from him.

There’s a deep, urgent need in his balls, his whole body feeling like it might boil over with bliss. He holds Oliver by his hair and arches into him, and Oliver takes it, one hand resting on Marcus’s hip and the other gripping his own cock. 

Marcus comes so hard, so forcefully, that it almost knocks him off his feet. Oliver moans and swallows the whole lot, while Marcus pants his way through the last of his orgasm, holding onto Oliver for support.

Afterwards his legs are so unsteady that he sinks down onto the floor. He is so out of it for a minute, he isn’t even sure if Oliver came, but when he opens his eyes again, Oliver’s sitting back on his heels and watching Marcus with a fond look. There’s a cum stain on his joggers.

Marcus isn’t really sure what to say, he just sits there on the floor, taking in his surroundings, dazed by his recent orgasm and the man before him.

“I’ll make you a cuppa.” Oliver smiles like he didn’t just suck cock as if his life depended on it and Marcus feels a funny twinge in his body.

  
He doesn’t reply. He stays on the floor, overwhelmed and tired from his release and looks at Oliver from the hallway. He makes his way into the kitchen and rummages through his cupboards, humming to himself, like this is _normal_. Like he didn’t just let Marcus fuck his throat in the bleeding hallway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gaaaah i've been writing non-stop for the past four days, so i've got some good stuff coming up <3


	6. An Interrupted Match

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver POV

Oliver’s in a ridiculously good mood this morning. He’s a little late for practice, so he hurries to put on his kit. He’s not usually late, but as they near the start of September, the weather gets cooler and Oliver spends more time underneath his covers. (Perhaps he’s also been dreaming about a particular centre-forward a little too often.) He hums to himself while tying his trainers, bubbling with happiness from the day before.

Yesterday had been absolutely fantastic. Marcus Flint had come over, angry and brooding as ever, and then Oliver sucked his cock in the hallway. Oliver shudders at the memory of Marcus' cock - fat and heavy, one prominent vein along the bottom of it and the head flushed a deep mauve, almost purple. A sight for sore eyes.

And then Marcus had stayed for tea, much to Oliver’s surprise.

Marcus didn’t say much, not that he had expected anything else. Their tea had mostly been Oliver asking questions and Marcus grunting out noises or one-syllable words. He had managed to get him to talk after a while, surprised by his sudden willingness to share.

_“So, are your parents still in Surrey?” Oliver asks tentatively, remembering Marcus’ parents from Junior league - or well, mostly his mum, a posh lady in a fur coat, not really cheering, just standing by the sidelines with sharp eyes much like Marcus’._

_“Yeah, my dad’s dead though,” Marcus states bluntly, still not meeting Oliver’s eyes, staring unabashedly at his Prince poster._

_“Oh, I’m sorry-” Oliver starts._

_“Don’t be,” Marcus says, meeting his eyes. He picks up a biscuit and absentmindedly chews on it. “He was a wanker - I think my mum’s better off without him.”_

_“Well, if that’s how you feel, I’m not sorry.” Oliver says honestly, sipping his tea. Marcus’ eyes are still on his and the way his sharp, grey eyes are analysing him, trying to read him, makes his heart flutter. He tries to change the subject to something lighter, hoping to get more from the other man. “Are you playing Chelsea tomorrow? That’s gonna be a tough one, yeah?”_

_“Yeah,” Marcus agrees, looking away._

_And they’re back to one word answers._

_“I’ll make sure to watch then,” Oliver tries and smiles, putting down his cup on the glass coffee table. He turns sideways to face the larger man on the sofa. He can’t help but wring his hands nervously in his lap. “Do you think you’d want to come to one of my games sometime? I mean- there’s no pressure or anything, I just thought it might be nice. I know you’re busy and all, with the season having just started and whatnot, but I would really-”_

_Marcus makes a strange noise. It sounds a bit like he’s clearing his throat and a mouse got stuck in it._

_“I dunno,” he almost whispers, clutching his cup tighter. He’s looking down into his cup, jaw clenching and there’s a furrow in his brow._

_“Alright,” Oliver sighs. He tries to not let his disappointment show. He reaches out carefully, placing his right hand on Marcus’ thigh. Marcus almost jumps in response. “Jesus, Marcus, I sucked your cock half an hour ago and now I can’t touch you?”_

_Oliver decides right then and there that Marcus turning beet-red is the most wonderful sight in the world._

_“Don’t--” Marcus spits, followed by more incredulous spluttering - or at least, that’s what it sounds like to Oliver - until he finally lands on; “Fucking hell, I don’t know why I did that.”_

_“Charlie says it’s internalised homophobia - means you’re scared of your own sexuality. It happened a lot to him at first too. It doesn’t help that the game’s full of toxic masculinity. But now, Charlie’s the number one player and comfortable with his sexuality.” Oliver says matter-of-factly, carefully stroking Marcus’ strong thigh. Distracted by the pure muscle, Oliver mentally wanders off. Oh, how he wants to ride those thighs, feel them press against his groin, maybe even sit on them--_

_“You know Charlie Weasley?!” Marcus all but yells and Oliver almost flinches at the level of his voice. Marcus eyes are wide, his jaw has loosened from its hinges and his mouth is open, his thick brows are almost touching his hairline making him look sort of stupid and oddly cute._

_“Oh,” Oliver flushes, “Yeah, well. My best mate Percy - we’ve been best mates since year one. He’s Charlie’s little brother. I’ve known the Weasleys for years, they’re like family to me. Charlie’s the one that helped_ me _come out_ . _”_

_“That’s… that’s good.” Marcus mumbles his eyes now on Oliver’s large tropical plant by the window. Marcus looks like he’s thinking heavily, like there’s a lot on his mind. Or, he could just be wondering about Oliver’s horrible botanical skills. The plant’s sort of dying on one side._

_A comfortable silence falls over them. Oliver doesn’t want to break it, so he pours himself a new cup and makes himself comfortable on the sofa. They sit in silence for a good ten minutes, just sipping their teas. After a while, Marcus gets up._

_“I’ve got a match tomorrow.” He states, like he just realised it. It sounds like he’s talking more to himself than Oliver. “I should go.”_

_“Alright,” Oliver sighs softly, “I’ll cheer you on from home.” He gives Marcus a small smile and his heart flutters when the larger man gives him a small upturn of his lips._

_“Thanks.” Marcus mumbles. Oliver catches a glimpse of a light flush on the great brute’s cheeks, before he abruptly stands and is off towards the front door._

* * *

After practice Oliver gets a ride from Lee Jordan to Katie’s shop. Lee’s one of their midfielders, only twenty-three and already brilliantly ahead of his age. Oliver knows that Lee’s being propositioned by other teams - _better_ teams, but so far Lee has stayed. Oliver isn’t really sure _why_.

“So I heard you turned down Sheffield? Not sure that’s a smart move, mate.” Oliver says looking pointedly at Lee.

Lee’s sort of cute in that young, fresh-faced way. He’s got large brown eyes, chocolate skin and a round, but not pudgy, face. He’s always smiling and cheery and when they’re on the field, it’s easy to see him by the big mop of dreadlocks on his head and even easier to hear him when he’s shouting encouraging words at their teammates on the field.

Lee laughs in response. “Yeah, everyone’s giving me crap for it, but I’m studying to become a journalist on the side, Oliver. I know it’s very privileged of me to say; but playing football isn’t my number one dream, so I don’t want to risk sacrificing my studies.” He averts his eyes from the road for just a second to give Oliver a serious look.

“Well, I suppose that’s your choice. I like the way things are too. I mean- it would be nice to be on a better team, but then I probably wouldn’t get to play much, being bent and all.” Oliver scoffs. There are four high-profile players that are out in the current league; Charlie Weasley, Terry Boot, Anthony Goldstein and Seamus Finnegan. They’ve got all the good sponsors and no one would ever dare say anything to them, because they’re all captains of their teams. The thing is, now that the league has got its token gay players, it’s like they need anymore. Oliver _knows_ he’s better than some keepers in the league, but so far there’s been no offers.

“Don’t worry, Wood, if anyone ever says anything, we’ve got your back. Can’t mess with our Oliver. Besides, you need time for all the Instagram and Youtube stuff, don’t you? Must be good money for you.” Lee muses, taking a smooth turn onto Kensington High Street.

“It is and all the free stuff helps, but _my_ dream was playing football full time. I suppose I might get some more attention now that I’ve been invited to The Football Association Gala thing.” Oliver says carefully, shooting Lee a nervous glance. (He’s not sure who’s invited and he doesn’t want to make things awkward. He knows Division 2 players aren’t usually invited to anything important, so chances are his teammates haven’t been given invitations.)

“Oh yeah, I heard about that, don’t they want you to do some social media stuff?” Lee says with no traces of jealousy or bitterness, thankfully.

“It’s just some free publicity for them, I think. I mean, I don’t know why they picked me, but it’s probably just to get their diversity points. Openly gay player and all that,” Oliver muses, fiddling with his seat belt as they near Katie’s shop.

“Well, here we are,” Lee says and stops the car right in front and turns towards Oliver. “Mate, they picked you because you know so much about football. I don’t think you have to pin everything on your sexuality, Oliver. You’re good at football and you know more than anyone I know. It probably helps that you’re friends with Charlie Weasley and that you played with so many legends in Juniors, but still. You’re _Oliver Wood_ , the best damn keeper I know.” Bless Lee Jordan, Oliver thinks, because the other man is beaming at him and gives him a slap on the back. “You’ll be fine, Wood. Chin up.”

“Thanks Lee,” Oliver says, feeling his cheeks heat up and opens the door, “See you at practice, yeah?”

Lee nods happily. “Yeah, see you!”

Oliver gets out of the car and makes his way to Katie’s nail shop. He’s got a few hours before he’s supposed to be in Watford, so he supposes he can stay for a tea as well. 

* * *

“Hiya son,” his dad greets him with a warm hug as soon as the door opens. “Ya mum’s been absolutely horrendous about your visit, faffing about, doing this and that!” His father’s laugh is a heartfelt, throaty laugh and Oliver finds himself smiling at the familiarity and at the thought of his mother being as prissy as usual.

“Well, it’s not everyday a _celebrity_ comes by, now is it?” He grins cheekily in response, getting a playful slap on the arm in response from his dad.

“Come on in then, dinner’s in a few minutes and then the match is on at seven,” Oliver follows his dad into the foyer. “Chelsea’s doing very well, did you see the game against Everton? I was surprised by Finnegan, I must say that lad is fast, I suppose he _is_ very small--” His dad rambles on, clueless to Oliver’s mum standing right behind him.

“Thomas, let the poor boy breathe,” his mother interrupts, giving his dad a fond look. She turns to Oliver and he finds himself on the end of a pointed glare. “Gonna give your mum a cuddle or are you too famous for that now?” 

“Shut up, mum,” Oliver croaks, his voice oddly tight, before hugging his mother tightly. 

He’s missed this. Oliver’s always been close with his parents and since moving to London, it’s been too long since he’s seen them. With QPR ranking ninth out of twenty-four in the Championship, he’s been training five days a week and done his videos on the other two and in his free time. He hasn’t had a proper day off in a while.

As his mother ushers him to the dining table, Oliver’s eyes catch on the telly that’s already on. It’s the pre-match show and the broadcaster’s are talking about West Ham’s offensive techniques. A montage of Marcus comes on; of him tackling and giving out shoulders. The voiceover says something about “rough play” and “brutish methods” and it takes Oliver a second to realise his dad’s talking to him.

“Son?” His dad tries again.

“Sorry, da’,” Oliver sheepishly says, “Got distracted.” He sits down across from his dad at the large wooden table. His mum’s done a fabulous job as always - there’s a large, golden turkey on the table and the roast potatoes look a little too crisp - just the way he likes them.

“Well, um,” his father clears his throat, “I just wanted to say you look nice. The makeup is nice. I like the colours.” His father gives him a small, tight smile and Oliver knows he means for it to be supportive.

Oliver feels his cheeks redden. “Thanks da’,” he stutters, “I… Thanks for noticing.”

His parents have always supported him and he knows how much they love him, but it had taken his father a little while to get used to the makeup interest. He was never ashamed, just fearful and scared that it would affect Oliver’s football and his chances of getting somewhere. His dad has never lashed out or forbidden him his interests, but Oliver knows it’s not easy. They’re from a different generation after all. It’s no excuse, but adjustments can be hard. Oliver’s just very lucky - his parents are supportive.

“You look absolutely lovely! You've got to teach me how to put the lashes on!!” his mother calls from the kitchen and Oliver laughs heartily.

After dinner, they move to the soft, brown sofa that Oliver remembers from his childhood. It’s a little worn, but it feels like home. Oliver’s sitting in the middle as usual - his mum on his right side and his father on his left. The matching arm chairs on either sides of the sofa are left empty - they’ve always sat like this for as long as he can remember, huddled together closely.

It’s comforting. His mother has her feet tucked up underneath her and she’s reading the paper while Oliver and his dad are staring anxiously at the screen. Oliver’s got his feet tucked up as well, while his dad’s got his on the coffee table. It’s a strangely nostalgic feeling and Oliver, for the first time in his life, wishes it wasn’t football on the telly, but Sunday morning cartoons.

  
  
  


They’re about ten minutes into the second half, when it happens. His dad makes an ‘oof’ sound at the harsh scene on the tv and Oliver feels all the colour drain from his face.

_“Flint’s tackling Potter and it looks like- Potter’s down! Flint’s down too and boy, does that look nasty! What’s this? Looks like Flint is hurt!”_

Potter and Marcus are both lying on the grass, Potter’s up seconds later, clutching his knee and grimacing. At least he can stand, because Marcus - Oliver feels an overwhelming surge of worry - is still on the ground. His face is twisted in pain and he tries to hoist himself up on his good foot. Higgs and Belby come to his sides immediately, each of them holding him upright and helping him off the pitch. There’s only a brief shot of the medics rushing to him, before the camera pans to Harry Potter who seemed uninjured and is looking a little bewildered.

_“Oooh! It’s a sprained ankle! Flint will be out of play for at least two weeks with that injury. Alastor Moody cannot be happy about this. But what a tackle, absolutely spectacular! Saved a goal with that one!”_

“Oh no.” Oliver feels very cold all of the sudden. “No, no, no, no.”

He watches, eyes glued to the tv as the medical staff supports Marcus as they walk off the pitch. Marcus looks grim, his eyes hard and his mouth set in a firm line. He’s glaring at the camera and then the picture changes and it’s a replay of the tackle in slow motion.

“Son, are ya alright?” His father expresses with obvious worry.

“Do you know him?” His mother, observant as always, looks at him with a furrow in her brow. She doesn’t say anything else, she just looks at him with curiosity written all over her face.

“I have to go, ‘m sorry mum and da’, shit--” Oliver begins to ramble and his mother is up in an instant.

“I’ll take you to the station, love,” she says, already making her way to the foyer to grab her coat. Bless his mum, Oliver thinks as he absentmindedly hugs his dad. 

“Remember your things, son,” his dad reminds him, holding out his bag. Oliver flushes a little at seeing the knowing look in his dad’s eyes. “Well, you’re not going all the way over there for a quick chat now, are ya?” His father winks at him and Oliver lets out an embarrassing sound that sounds a bit like a high pitched giggle.

“Thanks da’,” he says stepping out of the front door, putting the strap over his shoulder. He feels a crushing sense of guilt by leaving his parents’ home so suddenly, but he’s also incredibly moved by his parents willingness to help and the “no questions” asked part.

His dad waves his hand from the door at him as he gets into the car. The door closes and Oliver turns to look at his mother. Her auburn hair is now greying at the temples and it’s a bit messy as always. His mum pays him no attention as she backs out the driveway. She’s humming softly to herself, her hands tapping on the wheel.

It’s a one hour trip back to London, no matter which type of transportation. Oliver knows how sports injuries are handled. It’s going to take at least an hour before they’ll be done with all the prodding and silly tests. Marcus will probably have to sign something too. Football players cost a lot of money, after all. And then there’s the matter of someone driving Marcus home. If he’s lucky he’ll be at Marcus’ flat a moment before he arrives.

If it wasn’t for tea the day before, Oliver wouldn’t have known that Terence Higgs and Roger Davies are the only people on the team Marcus really talks to. 

He had gotten quite an interesting reaction when he mentioned that he remembered Roger from Juniors. Marcus had turned red and mumbled something about knowing. Oliver didn't want to push the subject any further, but he has a feeling Marcus might have talked to Roger about him.

Oliver looks at his phone. He’s already written three desperate messages to Marcus, knowing full well he’s not carrying his phone. They aren’t allowed on the pitch. Then there’s also the fact that he’s written them on Instagram. A media Marcus seems to use, but apparently not to _reply._

He hasn’t got Marcus’ number, so there’s no other way of reaching him. In a whirlwind of emotions, Oliver becomes desperate. It’s a long shot, but Oliver tries anyway - he writes Roger Davies on Instagram of all places - it’s not like he can just google Roger’s number, after all. He types at a frantic speed, almost breaking his freshly done nails on the screen. (They’re bordeaux with a sky blue line through the middle, an ode to the Westham colours.) He knows Roger isn’t playing tonight; he’s been benched, so there’s a good chance he’s the one driving Marcus home.

“I can drive you to London, Ollie-” his mum starts beside him, breaking him out of his thoughts.

“No mum, traffic is a bloody nightmare in central London, I’ll take the tube, it’s faster anyway.” His eyes don't stray away from the screen, searching desperately for those three dots to indicate Roger’s seen the message and is replying.

“Always so stubborn,” his mum chides, “who is this Flint?”

Oliver looks up from his phone and sighs. “Mum-”

“Oliver Wood,” his mother says, eyes never leaving the road, “You are twenty-five years old. You haven’t been to see us in _two weeks_ and then you finally show up here and then it’s out the door, because some _boy_ twists his ankle!”

Oliver knows when his mum is cross with him and this is it.

“I’m sorry, mum,” he starts, “it’s just been a little hectic with all the filming and training and then I met Marcus and I just sort of forgot everything. It’s just, ever since I moved to London you never visit! I don’t mind you and da’ staying at my flat. I can just sleep on the sofa.” He murmurs the last bit.

“Oh Ollie, we just didn’t want to bother you. We’re so proud of you, playing footie _and_ all the social media stuff. I _know_ you’re busy. I’m happy that you’ve met someone,” his mother’s voice is shaky now, “it’s just hard seeing my little boy become a man. I’ll remember to make the drive, pop by every now and then. Now, tell me about this _Marcus.”_

“Mum, honestly,” Oliver snorts, but his eyes are watery and his heart feels full of something, like it’s about to burst. “You’ll meet him when you come to London. He’s a bit…” Oliver trails off, not really sure how to describe the caveman that is Marcus Flint.

“I will hold you to that, love,” his mother says, her eyes straying from the road for a moment to give him a playful wink.

“I know you will, mum,” Oliver says, looking down on his phone again, smiling to himself.

There’s a reply from Roger.

_Hey Oliver. Don’t worry about it. I’m driving Marcus home in about 20 minutes - he lives in Paddington, not too far from Cleveland square, I can pick you up at Paddington st. around nine, after I’ve dropped him off?_

Oliver quickly replies: _Perfect._

* * *

As he comes up from the tube, he realises it’s only twenty to nine. He wonders if he should get some food for Marcus, but he has no idea what the giant eats.

Chinese seems easy and Oliver knows that Marcus can’t possibly be a picky eater _and_ be posh. Wox Noodle Bar looks all right, so he orders two portions of fried rice, chicken noodles, some egg rolls and some pork dumplings. He smiles to himself while waiting for the food. Nothing like greasy food to cheer someone up. Hopefully it’ll work on Marcus - he can’t imagine how much the injury must piss the older man off.

  
  
  


When he gets the food it’s a couple of minutes past nine. He walks around the stairwell to the station. He looks around, not really sure what to look for. He knows what Roger looks like, but even after an hour on the tube and ordering food, it’s still all a bit hectic and overwhelming.

“Oi, Oliver!” A voice yells and Oliver scans the street for the source of the voice.

Roger Davies is as handsome as ever. If Oliver didn’t have a type, Roger wouldn’t be a far cry from the ideal boyfriend. He’s in his training gear, West Ham joggers and a windbreaker to match, but even in that, Roger’s blue eyes, high cheekbones, dark brown hair and full lips are _very_ model-esque. Oliver quickly walks towards the man.

“Hi Roger. Um, thanks for doing this. Sorry, if I seemed a bit desperate on the phone,” Oliver says and flushes, not really sure if Roger knows anything about him and Marcus. He’s not really sure if Roger knows he’s gay either.

“Oh, come on now, I’m just happy that Flint’s got someone, you know. I think you’ll make him _very_ happy,” Roger says and winks. Oliver would be lying if he said he didn’t find that a little bit sexy. “Now come on, my car’s over there.”

When they reach the car - an Audi R8 Coupe that almost makes Oliver swoon - Roger gallantly opens the door for him before moving toward the driver’s side. Oliver feels himself raise an eyebrow in surprise.

“What a gentleman,” Oliver muses out loud as he gets into the car. He offers Roger a smirk. “Who knew such a thing still existed?”

“Well, I suppose when you’re dating a brick like Marcus Flint, all other blokes seem more polite,” Roger gives Oliver a wink. The car starts moving and for a moment, Oliver’s so amazed by its absolutely silent acceleration that he completely misses the part where Roger thinks they’re dating.

“I don’t know if we’re dating-” Oliver stammers.

“You are. In Marcus’ weird way,” Roger interrupts. “I’ve never seen anyone look so much at their phone - it’s like he’s constantly waiting for a dm from you. Before you, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him even _use_ his phone.”

“Oh.” Oliver feels his eyes get a bit blurry.

“For someone who went to Eton and is supposed to be posh, he’s a bit of a pillock sometimes,” Roger laughs, oblivious to Oliver’s emotional moment.

“Oh,” Oliver repeats dumbly, still taking in that Marcus’ teammates think they’re _dating._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kudos and comments appreciated as always <3
> 
> i may have fucked up and started writing two other flintwood fics, but i promise this one has my main focus. also shout out to @phantomato for being the coolest. 
> 
> (also can someone tell me how the fuck you put links in these things, i may have gone overboard and made a shitload of moodboards/edits for this fic)


	7. Nurse Oliver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marcus' POV

It’s only been _fifteen fucking minutes_ since Davies left and he’s already ringing the doorbell.

Marcus lies on his sofa for half a minute out of pure stubbornness. When his doorbell rings again, he can feel himself clenching his fists. He wants to punch someone. Who injures themselves fifteen minutes into the second half? How embarrassing.

He begrudgingly gets up, takes the stupid crutches that he _doesn’t even need,_ but no, his feet are where the money is, so he’s not permitted to “put unnecessary pressure on his foot”. Two weeks of bedrest and nothing else. At least he’s got all the leagues on his telly. That might be entertaining.

As he goes to open his front door, he supports all his weight on his good foot. He might as well _try_ not to overwork his injured ankle. Stupid Davies probably forgot something.

“What the fuck is it now?” He sneers as he rips the door open, ready to face Davies.

Only it’s not Davies. It’s _Oliver._ He’s got two plastic bags in one hand, a large bag over his shoulder and his other hand is clutching his phone tightly to his chest. It smells like Chinese and Marcus actually _is_ hungry.

“Hiya,” Oliver says softly. His eyes are doing that thing again. They’re big and watery and it looks like he’s about to cry. He’s got makeup on again too, his eyes framed by soft brown and golden colours and his lashes are so long and so _black._ Marcus vaguely remembers one of Oliver’s videos where he put on “fake lashes” as he had called them and he doesn’t understand why they’re called that when they look so _real?_

Marcus isn’t really sure what to say, so he just stands there for a moment, staring. He’s never told Oliver where he lives. He’s not sure why he’s even here or _how_ he got here.

“Why’re you here?” He huffs out, eyeing the bags with food. He really is hungry.

“I came to take care of you,” Oliver starts, voice bright and happy, like it’s the obvious thing to do. He seems jittery with nerves. “I was watching the game on the telly with my mum and da’ and then I saw you tacklin’ Potter. I thought I’d come by and take care of you. I know the management is gonna make you stay at home for two weeks anyway-”

“I don’t need you to take care of me.” Marcus snaps, cutting off Oliver’s ramble, because he _doesn’t_.

“Well, I’m here now. Roger said you wouldn’t mind-” Oliver continues, stepping closer to the door.

_“Davies?”_ Marcus spits, “Why the fuck are you talking to Davies?”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Flint!” Oliver exclaims agitatedly and Marcus would be lying if he said that it doesn’t do things to him to hear Oliver use his last name like back in Juniors, all riled up. His eyes are comically large and he gestures wildly with the bags in his hand. “I’m coming in. You will eat your food and then we can watch something on the telly together.”

* * *

If he hadn’t been on crutches, he would have stopped Oliver from coming in, is what he thinks a few moments later. Marcus also makes a mental note to punch Davies in the face next time he sees him for giving Oliver the code to the building.

Oliver has somehow managed to place him on the couch like a misbehaving child and is now rummaging around in his cupboards for plates. His conversation skills have thinned down to monosyllabic words spoken in anger as Oliver asks him about this and that while faffing about his kitchen.

“There we are,” the younger man says as he places two plates on Marcus’ coffee table. Marcus stares at his plate. It’s piled with fried rice, egg rolls and dumplings almost falling off the damn plate. Marcus knows he’s big and all, but this is food enough for a whole _fucking family._

“Oh,” Oliver exclaims at the sight of Marcus’ face, “Do you not like fried rice? I got some chicken noodles as well, I’ll just go—”

“No,” Marcus grumbles, “‘s fine.”

He doesn’t pay much attention to Oliver and starts shovelling down his food. He swallows his food - delighted by the greasiness and just generally pleased to have something off his meal plan - and looks at Oliver trying to pick something to watch.

“Can we please watch the Brighton-Arsenal match? I mean I already saw the results, but I’d still like to watch it. Diggory scored two goals, you know.” Oliver says it like it’s _impressive._ Marcus most of all wants to tell him that Diggory cried the last time he tackled him.

“They still lost, three-to-two.” Marcus counters with a mouth full of food, giving Oliver a half glare.

* * *

They’re not even halfway into the first half and then Marcus notices Oliver’s nails. They’re long and pointy as ever, a claret colour with a sky blue line on them. His team colours. He stares at Oliver’s hands as he scoops rice on his spoon. Marcus watches intently as Oliver brings the spoon to his lips - the lips that are now slowly spreading into a smirk.

“Finally noticed my nails, ay?” Oliver says, winking at him before putting the spoon in his mouth.

Marcus coughs into his hand. “Er, Why— Why’d you do that?”

“Thought I’d show some support!” Oliver grins with a mouth full of fried rice and it sounds _so honest._ Like he genuinely wants to support Marcus’ shitty team. They’re not even in the top ten. They’re absolute crap.

Marcus can’t really help himself, so he lets out a snort. “Don’t think there’s much to support.”

“Oh, don’t be silly,” Oliver tuts and slaps him on the knee gently. 

And then he leaves his hand on Marcus’ knee, turning back to watch the match.

Marcus stares at the hand. Oliver’s hand is smaller than his, paler too. He hasn’t got any rings on, unlike Marcus who still wears his class ring from Eton. (Mostly because he’s not sure if he can get it off.) His fingers are long, but not as long as Marcus’, but the nails make them look longer. Marcus doesn’t know when _acrylic nails_ of all things became a turn-on for him, but he kind of wants Oliver’s West Ham nails to rip his back to shreds.

“They’re... Uh,” Marcus clears his throat. “...Nice.” And then he pats Oliver’s hand awkwardly. 

He can feel the back of his neck getting hotter. What a stupid fucking thing to say. Sometimes he’s not sure why he opens his mouth - he’s not very articulate, he knows that. He barely passed English. (He barely passed anything, really.)

But his internal struggle is all worth it, because Oliver flushes a pretty shade of pink and beams at him, eyes bright and shiny. 

“Thanks, Marcus.” He says softly, eyes full of affection and his _stupidly_ alluring pouty, pink lips are spreading into a small smile.

And there’s a strange sort of warmth spreading in Marcus’ body again. Maybe it’s the way Oliver says his name or maybe it’s the fact that he hasn’t taken his eyes off of him, but Marcus wants to… do things.

He squirms awkwardly instead and stands up in a strange, sort of hurried motion, completely forgetting his crutch. He grabs the bloody thing, grumbling. Oliver doesn’t notice his blunder by the looks of it, because his eyes are back on the screen, but there’s a small, delicate hint of a smile on his lips. “You done?” He asks the younger man, picking up his own plate. Oliver scoops the last bits up and into his mouth, before handing him his plate, his eyes still focused intensely on the tv.

  
  
  


They watch the rest of the match in a comfortable silence with occasional comments on the plays. Marcus is surprised by Oliver’s extensive knowledge of football. He’s gesturing wildly as he talks about Diggory and Goldstein’s defence, completely involved in analysing their tactics. Marcus’ head feels fuzzy as he struggles to keep up with the conversation, not because he’s not able to, no, but because the sheer intelligence of Oliver catches him unguarded, _unprepared_ even. He’s never discussed football with someone so passionate, so knowledgeable - perhaps, even more so than himself.

“...I suppose Goldstein’s going to move to Manchester sometime. Would make sense - the classic 4-4-2 formation and strong defensive would be a perfect fit for his playing style.” Oliver ends his monologue by turning to Marcus. “Could I use your bathroom? I want to change into something more comfortable.”

There’s a short moment where Marcus doesn’t say anything, still processing the information. He’s about to reply with directions, when he realises that Oliver’s going to _change._

“You... Are you...” Marcus pinches his nose in frustration. “Are you planning on...”

“Sleeping over?” Oliver laughs like Marcus' inability to express himself is _cute._ “Why yes, Marcus. Is that a problem? Can’t bloody be your nurse from home now, can I?”

“I only have one bedroom,” Marcus blurts out and feels his temperature rise. He’s just made it painfully obvious that his first thought is that Oliver and him will be in the same _bed._

“And?” Oliver rises from the sofa and gives him a raised brow. There’s a small smirk on his lips and Marcus knows what he’s thinking - he knows what the other man wants. He’s not going to get it, though. Sleeping in the same bed means… it means things.

“I can sleep on the sofa—”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Marcus. You’re hurt,” Oliver says. He waves his hand dismissively as he says it. And then Marcus doesn’t get to say anything else, because Oliver’s already making his way to the bathroom that he apparently knows where is. He picks up his bag on the way.

He doesn’t know if it means Oliver’s going to take the sofa—or _worse_ , if that means Oliver plans to sleep with him. In his bed.

  
  
  


When Oliver comes out of his bathroom and moves towards him, Marcus momentarily thinks his eyes aren’t working properly.

The only way to describe Oliver’s attire is _inappropriate._

The younger man is not wearing a shirt and while Marcus has seen many men shirtless in the changing rooms, this feels very different. Oliver’s got several brown moles dotted around on his pale body and Marcus never thought he’d want to touch anyone’s moles this badly. 

Oliver’s fit. He’s not nearly as broad as Marcus, but his arms are defined and his abs are right _there_. He’s got those petal pink nipples and there’s a small path of brown curls on his chest. Marcus can’t help but wonder if Oliver shaves the rest of his chest to have such a perfectly placed patch of hair.

As Oliver turns towards him, he sees _it._ Oliver’s plump arse is _very, very_ prominent in his tiny shorts—no, they’re not really shorts, because the flimsy garment is shorter than boxers and only a few centimetres longer than briefs. 

They’re also very shiny and deep red, sort of like his mother’s silk morning robe. The tiny shorts are trimmed with black lace and Marcus feels his own mouth fill with saliva.

That day in front of the Regent Street Starbucks when Marcus had gone with Oliver home—those shorts are nothing compared to _these._

Oliver’s in front of him now, blocking the telly. Marcus looks up at him and takes in a sharp breath. He shakes his head to get his thoughts together and all he can come up with is:

“You sleep like that at your parents?”

It comes out more strangled than he intends it to and he cringes at his own voice. 

“Well, yeah,” Oliver says, cocking his head, “my mum and da’ don’t care what I wear.”

“Can I... touch you?” Marcus asks, unthinkingly.

Oliver lets out a sigh and rolls his eyes, but there’s a small smile on his lips. “Yes.”

He runs his large hand over Oliver’s stomach slowly. He watches his own hand move and it’s all sort of slowed down and sedated in his mind. He rubs at the soft trail of hair that leads from Oliver’s belly-button to his groin. The muscles in Oliver’s stomach jump wherever Marcus’ rough fingers come into contact.

For a moment, Marcus is stunned, overwhelmed even. He runs his hand down Oliver’s thigh. Oliver’s standing incredibly still as Marcus begins to feel up his thigh, almost stiff, nervous even. The skin is smooth (as Marcus has fantasised) and sparsely covered in thin, light-brown hair. It doesn’t bother him as much as he thought it would—he finds it strangely intriguing to touch legs not too different from his own.

He continues to rub his hand up and down Oliver’s thigh, unsure on how to continue. Under Marcus’ long fingers, Oliver’s leg trembles slightly. Marcus stops his hand at just the end of Oliver’s ridiculous “shorts” and rubs his thumb there, curious of that particular patch of skin. At the motion, Oliver moves forward in a rushed sort of movement until he’s straddling Marcus’ lap.

Marcus stifles a groan under the weight of Oliver’s hips settling onto his own and another groan comes when he feels Oliver's groin brush against his own. Marcus’ hands move to Oliver’s hips, clutching firmly, unsure of what to do next. Oliver nods eagerly and encouragingly at the motion, eyes overcast with want, his own hands flying to grapple at Marcus’ biceps before moving his hips in a slow roll. A moan chokes out of Marcus as Oliver grinds down onto his erection.

“Oh—yes,” Oliver moans into his neck, breath hot and moist. Oliver must be reading his mind, he muses, because the pace of his grinding speeds up and it’s _so fucking good._

“You—and your—fucking—shorts” Marcus pants into Oliver’s ear, because it _is_ the shorts that are to blame for his current predicament. The flesh on Oliver’s ear reddens and Marcus flicks out a tongue, just wanting to have a taste. 

Oliver moves his face back from his neck and gives him a cheeky grin, still grinding feverishly down on his prick. “You’re—just—easy.”

“Shut up,” Marcus grunts and lets his hands wander to Oliver’s plush arse. He gives it an experimental squeeze, almost letting out a moan when the fat there complies and moves in hands like putty.

“Make me,” Oliver breathes, dazed and far-gone, rolling his hips again, making Marcus see stars.

Marcus hurries to lean in and press his lips to Oliver’s clumsily. Oliver slips his arms around Marcus’ shoulders, trying to pull him closer. The heat of Oliver’s mouth is intoxicating and Marcus wants _more_. He licks his way into Oliver’s mouth, pleased with the noises Oliver makes as Marcus runs his tongue along Oliver’s.

Marcus pulls away for a breath after a minute or two. Oliver looks wrecked already. His lips are red and glossy with spit, his hair already strewn haphazardly across his forehead, and eyes lidded in a haze of want. Marcus licks his lips at the sight.

“Can you take them off?” Marcus asks, voice a little hoarse. Oliver doesn’t speak, simply nods fervently and stands up to remove his tiny shorts.

There’s something that rumbles deeply in Marcus’ chest at seeing Oliver’s cock for the first time. He’s seen cocks before—in the changing rooms and in porn films—but this feels entirely different. 

It’s real, it’s right there, and Oliver’s _hard,_ wet at the tip, flushed so red it almost looks ridiculous against the rest of his pale skin. There’s a patch of brown hair and he’s not as thick as Marcus, but Marcus doesn’t find it an unpleasant sight at all. There’s something feral in him that flares up - _he did this to Oliver._

He doesn’t get to think for much longer, because Oliver’s back on his lap. His hand slides down Marcus’ chest, right down between them, and Marcus lets out a growl when Oliver’s fingers wrap around his cock and pulls it out of his joggers. Then, Oliver’s hand grabs both of their cocks and holds them together tightly, and the sensation of it so, so, so new to Marcus, but not unwelcome at all.

Oliver’s firm grip makes it easier for Marcus - he grips Oliver’s arse with both hands again to keep him perched on top of him and starts fucking into the tight circle of Oliver’s pointy fingers, feeling the way his grip shifts till it’s perfect. Oliver’s knees dig into the sofa and Marcus doesn’t care. He spreads his legs more to get even better leverage. The angle’s awkward, but _fuck_ if it isn’t good.

Oliver’s squeezing them together as Marcus fucks himself against Oliver’s cock. Marcus knows he never gets his cock this wet, but Oliver’s wet enough for the both of them, making the continuous rutting even better and Marcus really wants to look at Oliver’s face but he can’t anymore, it’s too much, it’s too...

His head drops forward and their foreheads come to rest against each other; Oliver’s sweaty face meeting his as he growls and bares his teeth.

And fuck, it’s like Oliver was made for this, made to take this, made to make it better for Marcus. Because when Marcus’ hands clench around Oliver’s soft cheeks and one of his fingers accidentally slips down Oliver’s crack, he instinctively thrusts back against Marcus’ finger and lets out a sob.

Marcus doesn’t hesitate - he keeps a shallow pace in his thrusting and then he presses his finger unerringly between the softness of Oliver’s cheeks to the tiny opening hidden between them. He can’t see what he’s doing, but he knows it’s working, because Oliver chokes off a cry as he presses firmly, just the tip of his index finger easing into him. It’s so _tight_ and he’s not sure how anything could ever fit in the small hole.

But Oliver does it so well - he tilts his hips, lifting up on his knees to make it easier for Marcus to press deeper. In the process he lets go of both their cocks, but Marcus doesn’t care. Marcus stares instead, mesmerised by the sight in front of him.

“Marcus,” he whispers and Marcus has a hard time concentrating. “I... You need lube for that.”

Oliver’s fucking _beautiful_ when he flushed. And Marcus doesn’t have the patience, so he draws back his hand and looks Oliver straight in the eyes and spits on his fingers. He’s expecting Oliver to protest, but the Scot seems more mesmerised by the impressive amount of spit on his fingers, his eyes dazed and hungry. (He’s spat into his own hand too many times to wank, but Oliver doesn’t need to know that.)

Oliver whimpers as Marcus’ index finger finds its way back. He can’t help himself and he pushes it up to his knuckle, and the slick sound of his finger working in and out of Oliver is suddenly _so loud._ The keen mewls of pleasure from Oliver are almost echoing in his sitting room.

Marcus watches Oliver intensely as he curiously curls his finger inside of him. Oliver’s entire expression changes; his eyes squeezes shut as his mouth falls open in a soundless gasp, and Marcus is reminded abruptly of how _hard_ he actually is. As quickly as the notion comes, he forgets about it - his attention stolen by how Oliver looks when he slowly and steadily eases a second finger up inside him. Oliver’s _tight_ and warm and Marcus could do this forever.

“Marcus,” Oliver gasps, his voice bleeding into a whine as he grabs tight onto Marcus’ shoulders, his long nails digging so hard into his skin, he can feel it break. Marcus ignores the brief pain - he takes in the vision in front of him instead.

Oliver’s rocking back against his touch, flushed and breathless, his pink lips parted for shaking moans and his lashes soft and fluttering against his pale skin.

Marcus can’t help the possessive pang he feels at seeing Oliver like this, perched on _his_ lap, with _his_ fingers up his arse. 

“I need to cum _— please—”_ Oliver pleads and Marcus would smirk if he could remember how to use the muscles in his face.

Deciding that putting any more fingers into Oliver without lube probably wouldn’t be good, he eases his fingers out of Oliver, ignoring the whines he gets in response. He pulls the other man closer again, settling him back on his lap, their cocks back to nudging each other playfully.

He puts his hands around their cocks and tries to mimic what Oliver did earlier. He’s instantly surprised by the shudder that runs through both him and Oliver. Their pricks are still slick and Marcus starts to pull in an upwards motion, tilting his head up to meet Oliver’s.

Their foreheads slide against each other again, both sweaty and flushed, and Marcus presses his nose, his mouth anywhere he can reach. Nuzzling at Oliver’s face like an animal and so beyond caring, because now that he’s started it’s like he can’t stop. All the desperate little noises, whining and moaning— it’s all he can hear.

There’s that familiar tightness building in his balls, and he’s thrusting more unsteadily now, Oliver’s cock leaking all over them both. When Oliver moves his hand away by the wrist and starts stroking them tighter at the same time as Marcus fucks— 

It’s too much and he hears himself let out a snarl. His hips pistons upward, his cock in Oliver’s hand and he doesn’t even know if his eyes are still open, couldn’t see even if they were, and then Oliver’s cock pulses and jumps against his, swelling in Oliver’s grip as he comes, and Marcus can feel every twitch, every spurt in the split second before he’s coming too.

There are white-hot sparks in his mind and his whole body moves on autopilot as he paints Oliver’s taut stomach. The feeling of another cock against his own makes it more real, making him even more aware of how fucking good it feels, and he floats on it, lets himself get high on it, on hormones and _Oliver._

It’s only when Oliver collapses against his chest that he realises how bad the younger man is shaking and how his right leg is cramping, from not being moved for so long. Oliver’s panting open-mouthed against his neck and Marcus feels…. He feels loose and relaxed in that way he rarely gets to enjoy, even if it’s uncomfortable to sit like this, even if Oliver’s hand is still sandwiched between them.

“Marcus?” Oliver says after a while, voice distant like he’s barely aware he’s talking.

Marcus manages a noncommittal grunt, like he’s not exactly sure he should answer because he’s not really in his right mind right now.

But Oliver doesn’t say anything else, just sits there in a thoughtful silence, head buried in his neck, breath slowly evening out. One hand is still resting against Marcus’ chest, acrylic nails absentmindedly drawing patterns that he doesn’t recognise; circles, lines and dots.

  
  
  


Marcus isn’t sure how long they sit like that, but after a while his leg is cramping so intensely that he needs to stand up.

“Uh, I need to...” Marcus shifts awkwardly underneath Oliver, not wanting to push him off.

“Aye,” Oliver sighs, “We could shower, if you want.” He lifts his head from Marcus’ neck and moves slowly to get up.

There’s a strange twinge in his gut when he sees Oliver in his naked glory, post-orgasmic and all fucked out. There’s spunk on his stomach— _Marcus’ spunk_ —and his cock’s red, dangling softly between his legs. Marcus can’t really see his arse, but he’s certain there has to be marks from his hands. There’s also a red flush starting from his neck and moving down his chest and Marcus' eyes can’t seem to move from the pert, pink nipples that he forgot to touch. Next time, he promises to himself.

“Marcus?” 

His eyes snap up to meet Oliver’s and he sees the amusement on the younger man’s face. “What?”

_“Do you want to shower?”_ And only from Oliver’s pretty mouth could those words sound so dirty.

Marcus feels like he should probably offer to go after, but he’s sweaty and there’s spunk on his stomach and Oliver probably won’t let him shower alone anyway—what if he slips with his bad ankle and cracks his head open and whatnot. It’s probably better to shower with Oliver and get it over with, is the lame excuse he tells himself.

It’s not at all because he wants to see more of the keeper’s sinful body.

“Yeah,” he replies, standing up a little wobbly on his good foot. He doesn’t miss Oliver’s gaze though and he secretly indulges in the way Oliver’s eyes travel down his body, appreciative and keen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments & kudos is always welcome! please do share your feedback and thoughts - i want to improve my writing!
> 
> um, yeah, so more smut, just because?
> 
> also, big thanks to @justtoarguewithyou on tumblr for being an amazing beta. wouldn't have gotten through this chapter without your help <3


	8. Meeting Mum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver's POV & Marcus' POV

Taking care of Marcus, as it turns out, is becoming more and more of an excuse to touch him. As much as Oliver tries not to let it affect him, Marcus lounges about in joggers and nothing else, and having the miles of tanned skin, defined pecs and those monstrous arms on show is meddling with his ability to behave nicely.

Oliver isn’t really surprised to find that Marcus doesn’t do much in his spare time. He’s either in front of the telly or his computer and it’s always  _ football _ , not that Oliver minds. Marcus has subscriptions to nearly all sports channels, so there’s both the English, Spanish and Italian league to choose from and hundreds more.

When he’d been given a tour (by a very hesitant Marcus), he’d been surprised by Marcus’ neatness. Everything in his closet had been neatly folded and colour-coordinated, though there hadn’t been much colour in there to begin with. It definitely looked like Marcus didn’t own anything other than joggers, black jeans, plain white t-shirts and hoodies. Typical for an athlete, really.

There had also been a few nice button downs and a gorgeous, sleek Armani suit. When Oliver had asked about it, Marcus had mumbled something about his mother’s insistence. Oliver had assumed it made sense, with Marcus' background and all. Being in Premier league probably meant they were supplied with suits for free for events anyway, Oliver had thought bitterly.

Marcus kitchen, however, is sparse and devoid of actual food. When Marcus had showered, he had curiously snooped around the pristine kitchen, hoping to find something more personal about the centre-forward. He’d marvelled at the sleek hardware and the gorgeous granite countertops and it was  _ very  _ clear that this man did not cook much, as everything still looked brand new. His refrigerator had the basics; eggs, milk and pre-made smoothies. There were an obscene amount of take away flyers on the fridge door, indicating that the poor man more often than not bought food. Oliver had found himself wishing he was a better cook, just so he could provide Marcus with better alternatives. His cupboards held a few cans of beans and other preserved foods, but the main thing he’d found was a large selection of protein powder—all in the same flavour—which Oliver had found absolutely ridiculous, because who would  _ ever  _ prefer banana over chocolate?

When he had then borrowed Marcus’ computer to check on his YouTube statistics, he’d found Marcus’ search history to be full of his own name. He had secretly basked in the glory of making Marcus interested enough to watch his videos, but he refrained from mentioning it to him as they sat together. He did not want Marcus to know he had invaded his privacy, too afraid of his reaction.

  
  
  


Oliver’s content as he sits next to the hulk of a man now—his own feet are tucked up underneath himself and he’s leaning sideways against the armrest, allowing space for Marcus to lie flat on the couch, his feet carefully placed in Oliver’s lap, as he reads the sports section of The Guardian, grumbling loudly at the mention of his last match. Oliver is watching reruns of the Spanish league, hoping to catch a glimpse of Charlie’s phenomenal plays. It’s so domestic and wholesome and Oliver loves it.

As he watches Marcus’ enormous flat screen, Oliver thinks back to the previous evening with a small smile forming on his lips.

The evening before couldn’t have been more pleasant, even with Marcus’ questions and obvious discomfort.

_ “What are you doing?” The older man sits begrudgingly on the toilet lid, because Oliver refused to let him step into the shower without him. He’s looking at Oliver with obvious confusion as he unpacks his toiletries. _

_ “I need to remove my makeup,” Oliver says matter-of-factly, shaking his cleanser, before putting a little squirt on a cotton pad. He turns to Marcus at his side. He’s still looking at him strangely, his brows furrowed and nose scrunched up. “It’s not healthy to sleep with it on, you know.” _

_ “Won’t it just come off in the shower?” Marcus asks, raising a brow. _

_ “No, silly, my makeup is waterproof.” Oliver smiles. _

_ “Huh.” Marcus seems to revel in that particular bit of information. _

_ “What,” Oliver laughs as he swipes the cotton pad over his eyelids, “did you think it just came off? What if it was raining?” He’s laughing a bit louder now, his shoulders shaking at Marcus’ pure ignorance. The man in question just sits there, his face reddening slowly. _

_ “Well, how the fuck was I supposed to know?” he mumbles, fiddling with the towel in his hands and Oliver’s heart warms at the sight. _

_ “I wouldn’t expect you to know,” Oliver replies heartily, turning towards the mirror and pulling at his loosened lashes. As he pulls one off, he hears Marcus splutter next to him, so he turns to face him again. _

_ “Hold on,” he says and his eyes are comically large, “those things come off? I thought they just sort of, um, stayed on.” _

_ Oliver feels a chuckle coming back. “Oh well, you can have them glued on as extensions, but I can’t have that on the pitch, so this is easier. Too many nasty comments,” he twists back to the mirror and scowls to himself, “not everyone’s as nice as you.” The last bit comes out quietly, subdued even and Oliver sees Marcus tensing up out of the corner of his eye. _

_ “What—” he seems to stumble over his words as his fists clench the towel tightly, “what do they say?” And when Marcus’ eyes meet his own, there’s a strange, tormented look in the hard man’s eyes. There’s a tick in his jaw and he looks very much like when he’s on the field: determined and defiant.  _

_ Oliver removes the other eyelash as well and angles himself fully towards Marcus. He sighs, not wanting to rile up the other man. It’s late and they should be sleeping. Oliver’s got practice tomorrow and he doesn’t like the idea of playing with a bad night’s rest. “Doesn’t matter. I’m not made of glass, I can take it.” _

He smiles to himself, while their shower had been innocent and uneventful—though there was a lot of blushing on Marcus’ part—the moment Oliver had laid himself in Marcus’ bed, the larger man had twisted and turned uncomfortably. It had gone on for a couple of minutes before Oliver had chirped out a “good night” and turned his body onto his side to face Marcus. 

Marcus had closed his eyes at that, probably feeling overwhelmed at being watched. Oliver had laid like that for a while, watching the older man intently as his breathing slowed down, indicating that he had found comfort in Oliver’s presence. Then Oliver had fallen asleep as well, feeling inexplicably safe. 

When he had woken up this morning, it had been to the sound of Marcus swearing and grumbling.

_ “Oh for fuck’s sake,” the sound of Marcus’ voice wakes him up and he turns slowly to face the centre-forward. He’s standing on one leg at the side of the bed, struggling to step into his joggers. Oliver tries to ignore the outline of a half-hard cock in his boxers. His throat dries at the sight. _

_ “Good morning,” Oliver croaks, inwardly cursing himself for being so fixated on Marcus’ fit body. He can’t help but look humorously at him now, as he struggles with the motions of a child. “Do you need some help with that?” _

_ “Er,” is Marcus' initial reply and then, after he struggles some more, he looks helplessly at Oliver. “This is fucking shite.” _

He had helped him put on his joggers, much to Marcus’ dismay, and they had had a lovely breakfast consisting of Oliver’s contributions—nearly burnt eggs and under-cooked hash browns— and Marcus’ addition taking form as burnt toast and nearly mashed beans. They had had quite a laugh over their inability to cook, but it had been a pleasant affair nonetheless.

“When’s your practise?” Marcus asks, breaking his thoughts. His voice is groggy and while Oliver had been lost in his thoughts, it seems the older man may have drifted off a little.

Oliver gives Marcus’ good foot a gentle squeeze and smiles. “Not until one o’clock. But I’ve got to be off soon, though. My gear’s at home.”

“Yeah, alright,” Marcus says and shifts, stretching his arms over his head, pulling his abdominal muscles tight and once again Oliver feels his throat dry up.

Good thing he’s getting some exercise soon.

* * *

Oliver’s doing drills with Lee. The others are further down the field, doing cone exercises and dribbling cut-backs. Lee is excused since the assistant coach isn’t here to train with Oliver. Being a keeper can be a bit excluding at times with not really having to train the same drills as the other players. He’s glad he gets some time with Lee, however. The younger man is, as always, in a good mood today, smiling brightly at him.

Lee’s in front of his goal with five balls lined up perfectly, ready to be kicked by Lee and ready to be saved by Oliver. Hopefully.

Lee does a short run-up before he kicks the first ball. He manages to do a beautifully curved ball that flies sharply over Oliver’s head and straight into the net. Oliver just stands there and blinks stupidly.

“I don’t see why a man of your talent would rather be a  _ journalist,”  _ he says honestly, because to Oliver the idea of pursuing anything other than football is ludicrous when you’ve got a knack for it.

“Ha!” Lee laughs, “I could be a sports journalist, you know,” Lee puts his hands on his hips and cocks his head. “Although it seems you’ve beaten me to it. With the gala and all that. Our very own Ollie on the red carpet!”

Unsure if Lee’s having a laugh, he offers a lame stutter and starts to blurt out an apology.

“Jesus, Oliver!” the younger man intervenes and scratches the back of his head, “I don’t want to be in sports, relax! I think I’d like to do something more meaningful.” When Lee sees Oliver’s brows narrow, he hastily adds a “Er, well meaningful to me anyway.”

Now Oliver laughs. “Just kick the bloody balls, Jordan,” he says fondly.

* * *

Oliver isn’t one to whine excessively and he’s not a stereotype, not some loud mouthed twink, but Oliver  _ is  _ just a bit angry with himself for breaking a nail. And God bless Lee Jordan, he thinks. The midfielder had all but screamed for the standby QPR medics the second Oliver had groaned in pain, clutching his glove, desperately trying to undo the tape to see the damage underneath.

He grumbles loudly as he drops his bag on the floor of Marcus’ entrance, kicks off his trainers, and walks promptly to the leather sofa to sit. He plops down with a very loud groan, completely ignoring Marcus’ attentive gaze as he closes the door after him.

“I broke a nail.” Oliver huffs out and he really tries not to sound dramatic, but he  _ had _ just got them done. It’s not even been twenty-four hours since Katie finessed his nails.

The larger man slowly makes his way to him, looking thoroughly disgruntled at having to use his crutches. When he reaches the sofa, he smoothly turns and lets himself fall down onto the sofa, right next to Oliver. The movement is sort of childish and sweet and it makes Oliver smile.

“How’d it happen?” Marcus inquires, leaning in brazenly to look at the finger in question. Oliver has to take in a sharp breath when Marcus’ scent fills his nostrils and a large, warm hand covers his to pull it closer. He’s a little taken aback by the other man’s blatant and genuine interest, but he’s also  _ very  _ distracted by Marcus’ bare chest still.

“Well—I usually tape my fingers with—well, four layers, just to protect my nails and my gloves have extra padding—this  _ never happens _ !” Oliver exclaims, looking desperately at Marcus for answers.

“Was wondering ‘bout that,” Marcus says and shrugs, “Dunno why you’d want them, when they make it harder to play.” He scrunches his brows up preposterously, like the concept is positively silly.

“I thought you liked them,” Oliver pouts, dramatically turning away from the shirtless man with a huff to indicate his dissatisfaction. He looks over his shoulder playfully and winks at the other man.

“Shut up,” Marcus croaks and there’s a  _ beautiful  _ flush growing on his cheeks. It’s all very telling and Oliver considers his options. 

He was supposed to go for a run, have a second shower and edit his latest video, but having Marcus shirtless and blushing next to him, is a lot more entertaining.

He turns back towards him, giving him the dirtiest grin he knows. Marcus gulps in return, his steel eyes wide and Oliver doesn’t think there’s anything more arousing than a flustered Marcus Flint.

He didn’t mean for things to get physical so early. Oliver is in fact rather hesitant usually. With all the faff on his Instagram, he’s no longer able to use apps like Grindr. It’s been no bother though. Between football and YouTube, he barely has time for dates and because of his following, people didn’t seem to believe it was him when he had used the app. After he had been accused of being an imposter more than four times, Oliver had deleted it.

So maybe, he had not been physical with anyone for a year before Marcus. It’s not really a priority when there’s  _ football. _ Sure he’d fooled around enough at university, but it had never been serious. This thing with Marcus, however, feels serious.

He’s deep in thought, unabashedly staring at the sturdy man who’s squirming awkwardly under his gaze. He’s oddly moved by Marcus’ progress, the subtle hints that he’s  _ learning,  _ that he’s noticing things. The fact that he’d seen Oliver’s videos, that he’d sat there patiently in the bathroom, unabashedly staring, curious about Oliver’s rituals.

They’ve already come a long way from the man who could barely walk down Regent Street with Oliver, let alone string a proper sentence together around him.

Marcus is so wonderfully honest. He continues to surprise Oliver with his questions that seem to be asked with genuine interest and obvious confusion. It makes his heart ache.

Oliver breaks the silence between them with a heavy sigh. “You know, it’s a bit distracting.”

“What?” Marcus says dumbly, like he had also been far off in his thoughts.

“You—being shirtless and all,” he says, inching closer, sitting up on his knees in front of Marcus.

“Oh,” Marcus croaks and his pectorals are right  _ there,  _ firm and strong, a truly distracting sight. Oliver can’t help himself. He places one hand on Marcus’ bulge, delighted with the deep groan Marcus lets out at the touch. He strokes softly, marvelling at Marcus’ inability to speak, the way his eyes widen and his jaw loosens into a hungry, slack position.

When he presses his mouth to Marcus’, he’s already far-gone and dazed and he barely registers the large paws that fall on his body, one on the back of his neck and the other clutching his waist tightly. He lets his free hand fall on Marcus’ broad chest to steady himself.

The kiss is slow, wet and deep. It’s essentially filthy and Oliver feels the way Marcus bites and sucks ardently at his lips, he feels it in his very core. Marcus’ tongue, hot and heavy, breaches his mouth and it teases Oliver’s into play, curling and flicking.

Oliver’s not sure how long they kiss for, but when they break apart, it’s with a wet, smacking sound and his lips feel sore and tingling.

Marcus looks absolutely wrecked, his eyes wide, cheek flushed and his lips wet from spit and Oliver finds it very hard to concentrate.

He considers his options again. He should go for that run, though. He’s been slacking a little ever since he met Marcus. He’s distracted, unfocused and the fact that Lee was able to score three out of five on him today, gets to him.

“I usually go for a post-practice run,” Oliver tries weakly, very aware of the hardening bulge under his hand. It’s a half-hearted attempt at redemption, at least he made an effort.

“You can go for a run later,” Marcus growls, eyes never straying from his lips. Oliver would be lying if the other man’s sudden burst of confidence isn’t extremely hot.

“I suppose…” Oliver trails his fingers, teasing and featherlike, over Marcus’ crotch.

He gets a grunt in response and abruptly, Marcus is up on his feet, hastily tugging down his joggers. He looks quite silly, balancing on his good foot to pull off his joggers, so Oliver can’t really help the chuckle that escapes his lips.

The chuckle quickly dies in his throat when Marcus’ cock bounces up, freed from the joggers. Red, hard and leaking and Oliver desperately wants it in his mouth, but then Marcus is back on the sofa, tugging at his trousers.

“Get them off,” he growls and Oliver hurries to comply. He stands up, tugging them down with his boxers and all, because there’s no point in keeping them on when Marcus is already naked. He tries to ignore Marcus’ hand as it nears his arse, but when the larger man pinches his arse cheek, he lets out a gasp and it takes him no less than three seconds to straddle the hulk of man.

Marcus paws at his shirt, pulling it roughly over his head, tossing it over his shoulder carelessly and Oliver struggles a little with feeling so manhandled. Although it  _ is _ rather intriguing that Marcus seems to take charge.

Suddenly, the heat of Marcus’ mouth is at his chest, crooked teeth a sharp, sweet pain on his nipple and Oliver yelps aloud, grabbing at Marcus’ head with both hands as the little nub gets all the attention Marcus has to offer.

"Oh," Oliver whimpers, fingers tangling into dark hair as Marcus mouths his way to the other side and repeats it, until that one stands upright as well, nibbled raw and eager.

Oliver’s panting now, Marcus grunting, the both of them grinding feverishly against each other. Marcus’ cock is so thick and wet, dripping with precum, and Oliver can practically feel it throbbing against his arse. He shifts in Marcus' lap and suddenly it’s just  _ perfect _ .

Marcus’ prick is now between his cheeks, deliciously fat and heavy, the spongy cockhead almost brushing his hole and if he just—

  
  


“Oh dear.” A female voice comes from the door.

  
  


“Mum—What the fuck?” Marcus’ head turns so fast, Oliver fears he might have hurt his neck. Marcus’ eyes are wide and his entire body tenses. His prick is already going soft and Oliver can feel his own erection wilting away. Oliver doesn’t dare speak or move. He’s just sitting there in Marcus’ lap, hands on the broad shoulders and his own neck and chest ridden with red and purple marks from Marcus’ wicked mouth.

For Oliver, it’s as horrifyingly awkward as things could get. He’s fairly certain Marcus’ mum can’t actually see anything incriminating (other than their position) from behind the back of the sofa, but with the noises Oliver was making she must have a good indication of their… Activities.

“I will let you get dressed, while I wait outside.” The small, lithe woman, who is dressed impeccably Oliver notes, walks calmly back out the front door. It closes silently behind her and Oliver stares at the door, still confused by the situation at hand, by Marcus’ mum—

  
  


“Put your fucking clothes on and get the fuck out.” 

  
  


Marcus’ words cut through him like a knife, sharp and searing. His eyes are cold, his jaw is clenched and his teeth are grinding so hard that Oliver can  _ hear  _ it. He’s not sure what to do and he doesn’t even get to make that decision, because Marcus pushes him off his lap so hard Oliver would’ve fallen on the floor if it wasn’t for his keeper reflexes.

Marcus doesn’t falter and stands up, not sparing Oliver a single look. He looks around for his joggers and limps his way to them where they lay; discarded on the floor in front of the couch. He grunts as he steps into his joggers and pulls them up, not seeming to care about his injury at all, only grimacing a little as he puts pressure on the wrong foot.

“Marcus, I’m—”

“Didn’t you hear me?” Marcus whispers, his voice raspy and breathy like he just ran a marathon. He’s looking down at the floor and his fists are clenched. “Get the fuck out.”

Oliver feels himself slowly grow cold. He feels humiliated, sitting there, naked on Marcus fucking Flint’s sofa. “I—”

“Just get on with it. Piss off.” Marcus says like it’s  _ final, done, no discussion. _

**MARCUS POV**

“So,” his mother announces, her lips pursed as she closes the door after Oliver, “are we going to talk about the young man in your lap I just met? You could have at least introduced me.” She’s got that  _ tone _ in her voice - like whenever his father had a bad day and he was moments away from a tantrum. She’s observing him like he’s a wild animal, her grey eyes sharp and calculating, like she’s trying to read him.

“I’d rather not,  _ mother _ ,” Marcus sneers. He leans further back into the sofa and tries to make himself smaller, tries to hide himself from her hard eyes. He sighs heavily and covers his face with his palms.

Oliver’s just left. Marcus tries not to think of the keeper’s face when he told him to leave. Oliver’s face had been—he’d looked sullen, crestfallen - just so  _ sad. _

“Marcus—,” she starts and she’s suddenly beside him, standing next to the sofa, but he doesn’t want to hear it.

“We’re not fucking talking about this.” He says trying to keep his voice steady. He wants to punch something. He should have known this would happen. His mother’s no good meddling and Oliver’s complete disregard for privacy were bound to clash.

“Darling, I don’t care—”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!” Marcus yells and he instantly regrets it when he sees his mother physically recoil from his words. It hurts a little to see her so shocked. He stares hard at the floor now and is, all throughout his body, disgusted with himself for acting so much like his father used to. It’s alright on the pitch—those blokes can handle it, it’s just banter after all—but this is his  _ mother. _

“Marcus,” his mother snaps and he moves his gaze up, meeting the eyes identical to his own. His mother sighs exaggeratedly and pinches the bridge of her delicate nose with two fingers. “I always figured this would happen one day, love,” she says carefully and sits down at the opposite end of the sofa, respectful of his space.

Marcus is confused now, because there’s not a fucking chance he’s ever showed any signs of being into blokes. He didn’t even fucking  _ know _ until Oliver came along.

His mother must sense his confusion, because she chuckles tenderly and fondly. “Oh not that, of course. I meant  _ this— _ you closing up, lashing out at me, much like your father.” Marcus tenses at the comparison. “Your father wasn’t always like that, darling. He was a sweet man once. Then he went and mixed with the wrong sort and he wasn’t my Montgomery anymore.”

“Sorry, mum,” Marcus says distractedly. He’s still torn. He’s angry with himself, confused by his own instincts. Why’d he throw Oliver out so fast? He stares at the floor, wondering how his current situation came to be.

“I don’t mind, you know,” his mother says softly and Marcus looks at her now and sees the fond look on her face. It’s all very overwhelming and something about his mother’s words are comforting and washes over him like a strong wave of relief. “I’m more interested in how long this has been going on. Is he the one you were seeing when I came by last time?” She asks carefully.

“We weren’t—It’s not like that—” Marcus tries and then promptly bites down on his own tongue. His mother cocks her head questioningly and Marcus lets out a frustrated groan. “I dunno. I don’t even know what we’re doing,” he decides to say, because it’s  _ true.  _ He has no idea what he’s doing. He doesn’t even know what Oliver wants from him, other than the fact that he obviously wants to get physical all the time. Not that Marcus minds. He feels a faint blush growing on his cheeks at the thought.

“Ah,” his mother utters, “So it’s more… physical?”

And that’s not a conversation he’s  _ ever  _ having, so he sputters instinctively and lets out a swear, “Fuckin’ hell, mum.” 

“Oh hush,” there’s a small smile on her lips now, “Who is he? He’s certainly very good-looking, perhaps even a bit out of your league.” His mother laughs heartily and slaps his thigh playfully.

Marcus mumbles something incoherent, even to his own ears. 

It doesn’t really matter now anyway. He’s gone and fucked it up.

He looks out the window, out onto the street of busy Londoners who’re minding their own, forever bustling and busy. If his stupid ankle wasn’t sprained, he would have been able to go for a run, get some fresh air and bask in the sun. It sits high in the sky for an autumn afternoon, the beams bright, welcoming and warm, but it’s nowhere near to how he feels inside.

**OLIVER POV**

Oliver’s in his bed. His curtains are drawn and he’s got his covers up to his neck. He’s not hiding, he’s just...

Tired.

He tries not to think about it, but Marcus’ harsh words are playing on repeat in his head, loud and echoing. He’s mortified at the thought of Marcus’ mother meeting him like that for the first time. He had barely put his clothes back on, before Marcus had handed him his bag wordlessly and opened the door. He’d seen the look she gave him of course, as he walked past her in the corridor. It had been curious and soft—a strange look to see in eyes so similar to Marcus’. 

He closes his eyes and attempts to picture something else. Anything really.

He’s sent Percy a text, hoping to hear some soothing words from his childhood friend, but his phone hasn’t dinged with a reply yet.

  
  
  


He’s drifting off, about to fall asleep and  _ forget _ , when he hears a key jiggling outside his front door. There’s about one second of mild panic spreading in his chest, before he remembers who has his extra key and settles back against his pillows.

He listens intently as the door opens and there’s a familiar sound of grocery bags being jostled and someone stepping into his home. The door is closed carefully, not slammed, and the mundane voice of Percy comes from his hallway.

“Got you some things,” there’s more rustling and sounds of shoes being taken off and neatly placed on the floor, “I’ll make you a cuppa, alright?”

“Thanks, Percy,” Oliver replies and he hates himself for sounding so muted, so  _ sad. _

After a few more rustling and rumbling sounds, he can hear his cupboards being opened and the kettle being put on.

  
  
  


A few minutes pass and then Percy’s there, by his side, placing a steaming cup of tea on his nightstand. He then promptly goes back to the kitchen to come back again, this time with a cup of his own. With the cup carefully balanced in hand, he sits down neatly next to Oliver in his bed, putting one of his legs over the other and then promptly shifting to uncross them, opting to stretch them instead. He fusses a little over his suit, careful not to crease it as he leans back against the headrest.

“So, who is he then?” Percy asks softly, smoothing his free hand over the covers, trying to get the wrinkles out. Oliver has always liked Percy’s ticks. He’s fussy and annoyingly precise, but there’s a familiarity in the way Percy fiddles with things. The way he turns his spoon in his tea even; one time clockwise and twice counter-clockwise. For a moment, Oliver just lies there looking up at his old friend.

“Marcus Flint,” Oliver sighs after a while, closing his eyes. 

When he opens his eyes again, Percy is looking down at him with wide blue eyes. “I must say I’m a little surprised. I mean, he’s your type, but he  _ is  _ a bit of a brute.” 

Oliver chuckles, despite his sullen mood. “I know—He  _ can _ be gentle...” he trails off before he’s hit with a wave of sadness, “when he wants to be.” It comes out as a whisper.

Percy nods understandingly and moves his gaze away from Oliver.   
  


“You know, Charlie will probably run into him at some point,” Percy says idly into the room after what feels like minutes, but it’s probably only been a few seconds. He continues, keeping his tone light and careful, “We could tell him to give him a good scolding.”

“I don’t think—” Oliver says and he can  _ hear _ his own voice breaking, “I don’t think he’d be intimidated, honestly. He doesn’t care.” And he knows that isn’t true, because though Marcus wouldn’t admit it; the great brute looks up to Charlie, the awe in his voice evident the few times they’ve talked about him.

“You don’t know that,” Percy states knowingly and Oliver closes his eyes again.

“Do you think—” Oliver starts and he hates the way his voice shakes, “Do you want to accompany me to the gala?” He opens his eyes and turns his head to look at Percy.

“Oliver,” he sighs and pushes his horrible, horn-rimmed glasses further up his nose, “You know I don’t find those events interesting. Isn’t Charlie coming?”

“Yes, but I’d like you to be there,” Oliver huffs and then quietly, he adds, “I think  _ he  _ might be there.”

For a while they just stay in their positions, letting the silence fill up the comfortable space between them, and Oliver lets Percy’s warm, sympathetic hand cover his own on top of the covers.

“I think—” Oliver chokes out, fighting back the hot burn of tears, tears threatening to spill behind his eyelids, “I think I’m in love with him.”

  
  
  


It’s a sunny evening in the start of September outside Oliver’s apartment; brilliant, bright and shining. It’s perfect for a run. Oliver doesn’t notice. His curtains are drawn shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm sorry for the time this chapter took, but making our boys sad is really hard okay :( bear with me - there's ten chapters left <3
> 
> kudos and comments appreciated as always - also, show of hands, who wants a flintwood flower shop/tattoo parlour AU? 
> 
> because i believe it hasn't been done and someone should write it!!!


	9. Pining

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marcus' POV

To put it gently, Marcus is in an even fouler mood almost two weeks later. His ankle is almost healed, but he’s on strict orders not to play or do any vigorous or straining physical activities until he’s had his assessment. His whole body feels tense and he really wants to punch someone. Anyone, really.

At least he doesn’t need the bloody crutches anymore.

He has had another sleepless night and the thought of Oliver Wood makes his stomach clench uncomfortably. To say that the days up until now have been uneventful would be an understatement. Marcus tries not to think about it, but he can’t help it. It nags at the back of his brain. He keeps imagining what the last two weeks have been like for Oliver. Has he been to the Regent Street Starbucks for his sugary morning fix? If so, is he discussing football with the annoying girl behind the counter? 

Marcus has never gone through anything resembling a break-up, but he’s never felt like _this._ He hasn’t once dared to look at Oliver’s social media. He’s terrified of what he might find. It scares him how after only having met the other man a few times, he’s already acting irrationally and reminiscing about the smallest of things. He doesn’t need any more reminders. Of Oliver, of his big, brown eyes, of his pink, pouty lips, of his—

He tries not to think of Oliver’s low chuckle and the way it sends shivers down his spine. How Oliver has a strange need to put heinous amounts of sugar in his coffee, until it doesn’t taste like coffee anymore. How Oliver looks sleeping in his bed, brown lashes fanning on his cheeks, lips parted and how soft huffs of breath come out, steadily and quietly.

How Oliver likes to touch him; on the sofa, when they’re eating, whenever and wherever really. Oliver’s hand on his knee, casually resting here. Oliver’s lingering fingers on skin; when he helps him put on his joggers, when he helps him out of the shower. How Oliver kisses him, slow and filthy, before he leaves for practice and Marcus is left there on the sofa with a raging boner. How Oliver also hums little pieces of songs at random—just long enough for Marcus to almost recognise the melody, but not for him to identify the tune. How Oliver slowly absorbs him, surrounds him, taking up his space, filling his head, filling his _heart--_

Oliver’s maddening, _infuriating,_ really, and Marcus can’t stop thinking about him.

He hasn’t left his apartment in over a week and every time Higgs and Davies come by, they both give him pitying, sad looks and it makes him feel angry and embarrassed, too.

Today’s no different. Someone knocks on his door and he already knows it’s the two bumbling idiots. 

He rips the door open with force and tries to give the two men an intimidating look.

It doesn’t work.

“Ugh, it smells like pining in here,” Higgs says as he barges in, barely acknowledging Marcus before he can punch him; Roger’s already sticking his arms between them.

“No fighting, boys,” Davies says, pushing himself between them. Marcus closes the door behind them and watches as the two make their way to his sofa and both plop down in it without leaving any room for him as usual. It’s getting a little tiring. It’s _his_ bloody sofa.

“What now?” Marcus sighs, slowly approaching them.

“Are we finally going to talk about it?” Davies practically spits, “We’ve watched matches, we’ve eaten God-knows-how-many curries, we saw that stupid film—”

“It wasn’t stupid! It’s art—” Higgs interrupts, clearly offended that Davies isn’t up to date with his pretentious film taste.

“Spit it out, Davies,” Marcus cuts Higgs off impatiently. He’s not a complete idiot, despite what Davies and Higgs might think. He knows they know. They know about _Oliver._

He just doesn’t want to talk about it and he doesn’t understand why it’s so important to them. It’s not like it’s affecting his matches anyway. He’s injured and it’s all that stupid ponce Potter’s fault. How is it that Marcus goes in for a tackle to purposely hurt the Chelsea defender and then _he_ ends up injured?

“Look,” Davies starts, “I don’t know what happened between you and Oliver, but he was very excited to spend some time with you when I drove him here. I mean, he got you food and he left his fucking parents to be there for you— his parents, Marcus!”

“Yeah,” Higgs supplies stupidly.

They both give him stern looks and for a short moment he’s taken back to being a child, being scolded for skipping school to play football in the local park.

The thing is, Marcus isn’t much of a talker. The closest he and Higgs have ever come to an emotional conversation was when his father died and Higgs had come over with two bottles of whiskey. They’d barely gotten through the second before they both passed out on his sofa. There wasn’t much talking, it was mostly just banter and commentary on the match they had watched.

He’s not one for sharing, he’s not interested in _advice—_

“My mum—she walked in on us, er, doing stuff,” he blurts out and then promptly gets annoyed with himself for saying it. He shoots both men a glare and crosses his arms defensively.

“Stuff?” Higgs repeats with an amused smirk on his lips. “Didn’t know you had it in you! No pun intended, ha! Feel sorry for Eleanor though. Your mum shouldn’t have to see that—”

“Fuck off,” Marcus scowls, miffed by Higgs’ teasing. 

“So,” Davies says, completely ignoring Higgs beside him. He looks up at Marcus and raises a brow, “what did you do?”

“Why’d you assume I did something?” Marcus grits.

Both Higgs and Davies give him pointed looks.

“Yeah, alright,” Marcus admits, annoyed with them both for being so very right. He’s been over this with himself already. He shouldn’t have thrown Oliver out the way he did. He should have written him a text, tried to call him, but he’d been too wary, too afraid. What if Oliver hadn’t picked up?

Three days after the incident, he had pulled himself together and dared to look at Oliver’s YouTube account. There hadn’t been anything. No new videos, nothing. “I sort of... _panicked._ And threw him out.”

_“You did what?”_ Davies yells with wide eyes, “and you haven’t tried to call him since?”

“Er,” Marcus feels an unpleasant churn of anger and guilt, “I didn’t know what to say.”

“How about apologising?” Higgs chuckles and Davies hides his face in his hands.

Suddenly there’s another knock on his door and Marcus knows it’s not his mother. She would just barge in, as usual, with no disregard for his personal life. In hindsight, he really shouldn’t have given her a key, but knowing her pestering insistence, he’d caved. Both Davies and Higgs give him what-are-you-waiting-for looks from the sofa and Marcus feels a slow wave of panic coming on. Could it be Oliver? He’s not ready for the confrontation and stares at the door like it’s the gates of hell, the source of all evil.

He looks desperately at Davies, who just shrugs. There’s a knock on the door again and Higgs flies up from the sofa in frenzy and throws his hands up in the air.

“Jesus Christ, Marcus,” he walks determinedly towards the door and unlocks the door slowly. He opens the door a tiny bit and sticks his head out carefully.

“Oh, it’s _you._ ” Higgs very plainly states and Marcus doesn’t know what that _means._ He forces himself to sit in one of the chairs by his dining table, trying to calm down as the door opens wider.

When he sees that it’s just Pansy and that she’s not looking very happy as per usual, Marcus lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Only, one millisecond later, he has to hold his breath again, because Pansy’s tone is positively livid and Marcus never knew a bird could be this _scary._

“Marcus fucking Flint! When were you going to tell me?” Pansy shrieks - her sharp hazel eyes on him, completely ignoring Davies’ weak “Hello Pansy” and lame waving.

“Wha—”

“You and _Oliver Wood?”_ Pansy’s voice seems to get higher and higher and Higgs must think the same, because he’s covering his ears with his hands. Davies is frowning, looking very intently at Pansy. Marcus’ stomach does a strange, sharp plummet and his hand forms a fist on the table. Even though his nails are short, he feels them dig into the skin of his palm, making little half-moon marks. He looks at Pansy now: she’s standing straight and self-assured, her eyes burning and his chest fills with an emotion that he can only pin down as _embarrassment._

“Leave him be, Pansy,” Roger says softly from the sofa and Marcus is suddenly feeling very grateful for the twat being here.

“I will not,” Pansy huffs with her up-turned nose in the air. “It’s my _job_ to know. There I was, going through your accounts and then _—_ _oh, what’s that?_ Flint’s DMs are filled with pictures and dirty messages. Flint, this is something you need to inform me about—”

“‘M not a fucking shirt lifter,” Marcus mumbles, moving his gaze out the large window, staring blindly into nothing. 

“Mate—” Higgs starts.

“Marcus, we’ve already been over this.” Roger states firmly.

_“Ooooh,”_ The obvious tone of realisation from Pansy, makes him turn his towards her again. She looks sort of stupid, her eyes wide and her mouth gaping wide open. “I see. You’re in denial.”

“I’m not in fucking denial. Shut the fuck up. Why are you here, Parkinson?” He spits, ignoring the way she flinches at his tone. Stupid cow.

“Well, I was trying to avoid an absolute PR nightmare,” she drawls, looking at him pointedly, “but there’s also the matter of the gala. I would prefer if _you_ did the interviews, Flint. You’re sort of becoming our face, so—”

“What?” Higgs interrupts, “You want Flint to do press?” and then he’s laughing, loudly even, shoulders shaking and clutching his stomach.

“ _Terrence,”_ Davies warns threateningly, “this isn’t what we came to talk about!”

“Oh, you mean _Oliver Wood_ ,” Pansy says teasingly, shooting Marcus a mischievous look. She moves her gaze to Higgs then and curls her lip in disgust. “And yes, Flint’s doing press. We certainly don’t need any interviews with your ugly mug.”

Higgs splutters incoherently in anger.

Marcus looks down onto the tabletop, the steel shining and reflecting the midday sun beams from the window. It’s a bit like the morning before it all went to shit, except Oliver’s not sitting across him munching on burnt toast, stealing shy glances at him. The warm sunlight is suddenly a too strong contrast to the cold industrial surface and Marcus considers briefly whether he should get a new table or not.

He’s not comfortable and he doesn’t like how they’re talking about him, about _Oliver_. The stupid glances and the knowing smirks. He doesn’t like it one bit.

“Just—” he starts and then he’s annoyed with his own strangled voice, “I’ll do the press, Parkinson. Stop talking ‘bout it.” He mumbles the last bit and he’s very aware of the three sets of eyes on him.

“Your little _boyfriend_ is going to be there,” Pansy winks at him, “so you could try to charm him a little. You’ll all be wearing Prada, thanks to _me._ Might help your _wooing,_ instead of this brooding thing you’ve got going on. You look _ghastly._ ” She waves a perfectly manicured hand to indicate Marcus’ current state. He probably could have bothered to shave, at least. There’s also the ketchup stain on his joggers, but he hasn’t done laundry and this is his last pair.

“Oliver’s going to be at the Gala?” Marcus blurts out, unable to help himself. “But he’s not even in Division One!” He’s not sure why he blurts out the second part. He should have known Oliver would be invited with his following and all. The thought stays there in his head, echoing. Oliver’s going to be there. Why didn’t he tell him? His head swarms and he’s momentarily so overwhelmed that he tunes out his teammates and Pansy.

He had already decided not to drink at the gala, not wanting to fuck up his body further—he had practically _felt_ the muscles in his legs dissapearing after two weeks of no exercise. Now he knows there’s no way he can have a pint—not with Oliver there. Marcus isn’t much of a drinker, but he knows how his temper can flare up with alcohol in his blood.

It wasn’t more than three years ago, after his rejection from Tottenham—which still stings if he’s being honest—that he had decked some random bloke in a club for commenting on it.

“So which one of you is driving?” Pansy’s voice cuts through his thoughts, “We didn’t budget for this event, so you’ll have to figure it out amongst yourselves. God knows why they invited us. No dates, though, you don’t have plus ones, so I want you three to arrive together, with being the only single lads on the team and all.” She rolls her eyes and waves her hand as if the gesture itself is explanatory.

“Think about that a lot, do you?” Higgs snorts, “Us being single?”

“Oh, do shut up.” Pansy retorts, sneering at him.

“Well, you don’t have a date, do you? What, no one wanted to go with poor Pansy?” Higgs continues, still prodding and even Marcus knows about Pansy’s string of affairs and her endless quests to find a boyfriend. It’s a stupid thing to mention to a woman with a temper like Pansy’s.

Pansy looks incredibly poised as she ignores him, but Marcus sees the slight tremor in her clenched hands. Marcus looks at her, taking in the sight of the persistent woman. Her hair is bobbed; the ends rest at her chin, precise and boxy, with thick bangs covering her forehead right down to her sharp eyebrows. There are signs of strain, though, that he hadn’t noticed earlier. Her makeup is simple, but in the glow from the sun through his windows he can see the shadows under her eyes and the lines around her mouth where she holds her lips tensed. Then, Davies coughs awkwardly into his hand and shoots Marcus a nervous glance, like he wants him to say something.

“I can drive,” Marcus says after a minute of silence, hoping to end whatever strange turn the conversation has taken.

“Good,” Pansy grits, nodding at both him and Davies before making her way to the door. “Just so you know, Wood’s been asked to do red-carpet for the livestream, so there’s a big fucking chance you’ll have to talk to him in front of _everyone.”_ Her eyes twinkle mischievously at Marcus and he hates the way his entire body tenses.

And with that Pansy slam the door behind herself.

“Fuck,” Marcus blurts out and gets up from his chair, feeling very wobbly on his feet all of sudden. 

“Yeah, fuck indeed, mate.” Higgs agrees, somehow now in Marcus’ kitchen, eating his leftover kebab. He’s munching carelessly on it, looking around himself with disgust as he sees the mess Marcus hasn’t bothered to clean up.

“Oi! I was saving that, you twat,” Marcus spits, though his heart’s not really in it. His mind still ravels, spinning with thoughts of the upcoming event, of Oliver, of having to talk to the man in front of people, in front of _cameras._

“Well, I was starving,” Higgs retorts and then he smirks, “didn’t you learn anything from the etiquette classes they made us do at Eton? When the lads come over you’re supposed to—“

“Fuck off,” Marcus sneers dismissively. He pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration, still trying to wrap his head around Oliver apparently working for the Association. While his thoughts run wild, Higgs continues his rant; _“sandwiches to be eaten with fingers, scones spread with jam and cream. The tea is milk first, then tea—“_

“Terrence, shut up, would you?” Davies interrupts Higgs’ tirade, “why were you mean to Pansy? It’s not really in your interest to be on her bad side.”

“She used my mate Pucey,” Higgs mumbles through the food in his mouth and both Marcus and Davies scrunch up their noses in disgust at the sight. Higgs rolls his eyes and swallows and Marcus, to his dismay, gets to watch the last of his lunch disappear, “She dated him for _two months_ and then tossed him like it was nothing. Next thing, she’s dating some CEO for three weeks and then a fucking barrister. It’s not right.”

“Who’s Pucey?” Davies asks, narrowing his brows in confusion. 

“Broke his fucking heart, did she!” Higgs exclaims, gesturing wildly with the kebab in his hand, “You know, Pucey, Marcus. From Eton-- He was a few years below us, always following us around, sweet little lad--”

“Yeah, yeah,” Marcus confirms, still confused by Higgs’ temperamental flare up. They’re not even _that_ close with Pucey. Davies looks perplexed as well, looking between Marcus and Higgs with a frown.

“That’s just Pansy,” Davies says then, “she’s always been like that.”

“Still doesn’t make it right,” Higgs spits bitterly.

* * *

He fucking triumphs at his assessment, much to his luck. He can’t help but sport a giant grin as he tears off his shirt at lockers, revelling in being _back._ His feet move like they’ve always done and with the sweat running down his body and a pleasant ache in his muscles, he makes his way to the changing rooms.

“Good to have you back, lad,” Moody says and slaps him rather forcefully on the back as he passes by.

It’s _this._ The thrill of the game, the sense of belonging, the sport he’s prepared to die for if he has to. Standing in a clinically white changing room with a dozen other men, sweat and other disgusting smells in the air, steam from the showers and the encouraging claps on his back.

He ignores Davies’ worried glances from the bench, because _this_ is all that matters.

Belby gives him a high five before he makes his way into the shower and Marcus follows him, throwing his towel on the little half-wall between the shower heads. He turns the water on and closes his eyes, tipping his face up to the spray. When he’s here in the showers, he hears nothing, sees nothing, feels nothing except the water beating into his body and the stress of his current predicament fades away.

He turns his back to the taps and leans over, so the water pounds into his back. The water holds him steady, allows him to be still, and for a short moment there’s nothing but the pleasure rolling deep over his aching muscles. The chatter from his teammates is forgotten and he revels in the soothing water washing over his skin. It’s strange how here, amongst a dozen naked men, he feels the most masculine, the most secure, the most confident, but at home, in the shower with Oliver, he had never felt more insecure, naked, raw and open for Oliver’s eyes only.

* * *

Marcus is halfway across the parking lot when Pansy catches up to him, grabbing his arm with her small, delicate hand. Marcus turns and tries to give her his best “fuck off” look, but at the sight of her soft, gentle gaze, he feels compelled to listen and lets out a huff.

“Look, I didn’t mean to spring it on you like that. I honestly had no idea—” she says with large eyes.

“Don’t!” Marcus exclaims, looking desperately around them in the empty parking lot.

“Honestly Flint,” and then she fucking _slaps_ him on the side of his head, “stop being so paranoid. What I’d like to know is how on earth you got Oliver Wood to even look twice at you? I mean, no offense, love, but you’re about as eloquent as a doorknob and he’s bloody out there being the spokesperson for LGBT!” She cackles at that and Marcus feels himself redden all over, because he _knows_ that he’s not particularly good at communicating and it’s probably why he’s in his current situation.

“I don’t know,” he mumbles and looks to the ground, “I’ve fucked it up already, anyway.” It doesn’t quite come out the way he’d hoped. It sounds a bit more like he’s hollow and broken. Like he’s fallen and he can’t get back up.

“Tell you what,” and her gaze on him softens again, “you don’t have to do the interview with him if it makes you uncomfortable. Just make sure Davies or Higgs do it instead.”

Marcus nods, uncertain how to show his gratitude to her and he’s just about to turn away, when the small woman speaks again.

“You know there’s nothing wrong with being bent though, right?” Pansy asks hesitantly, while fiddling with the car keys in her hand. She gestures for him to follow her and Marcus obeys.

“I didn’t say there was,” he replies stiffly, walking next to her. “It’s just… football.”

They walk in silence for a few seconds, until they stop next to Pansy’s flashy Mercedes.

“You might not have said it, but you’re literally petrified of anything that could be remotely seen as gay,” she says, turning towards him. Marcus fights the urge to shove her to the ground and run. “Like, all that averting your gaze when we talk about Oliver, touchy about jokes, no lingering in the changing rooms… You barely let anyone touch you or get close to you. I’m just saying it looks a certain way.”

“You sayin’ you always knew?” Marcus asks, trying to keep his voice steady, but it doesn’t quite come out right. He wants to feel angry and is horrified to learn that he feels something else entirely. He’s surprised, a little overwhelmed too, but nowhere near angry.

“I’m not saying anything,” Pansy says casually, shrugging one shoulder. “I’m just saying that if you’re trying to avoid looking bent, you probably shouldn’t sneer at all the women that approach you,” Pansy ends with a cackle, before she opens the door to her car and plomps down in the driver’s seat.

“Ta, darling.” Pansy drawls with a pointed look, slamming the door shut.

Marcus grunts in response and stares after her as she backs out of her parking spot.

* * *

It all happens sort of fast. One minute he’s in his car, prepared to drive home. The next, he’s making the biggest fucking detour ever and is parking his car on Binney Street, mere _metres_ from Oliver’s door.

From his car, he can look up at the first floor, at Oliver’s apartment.

He feels like a creep, like a pervert as he stares at the large window. The light’s on, a soft glow emitting from the frame and into the dark evening. It means Oliver’s home and his stomach churns with excitement. Perhaps, Oliver’s on his ridiculously blue sofa, watching the match that Marcus should be watching right now. The match he could be watching with Oliver.

Marcus contemplates whether to ring the doorbell or not. Would Oliver even open?

He stares intently at the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of the keeper.

The reality, however, is that he can’t see anything from his car. There’s a moment where a shadow moves and the curtain flows in the evening breeze and Marcus thinks it’s Oliver, perhaps he’s _there_ in the window, perhaps he’s looking at Marcus—

But then the shadow’s gone and he’s left with a sick, revolting feeling in his gut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the amount of dialogue, i had to do something with all of marcus' feelings??? he's damn lucky to have such good friends. as always, kudos and comments are appreciated. kept this chapter a little short, i know, but the next one's a bit of a whopper! 
> 
> thanks to my amazing betas as always and thanks to you guys for keeping me motivated to write this. i promise our boys will find each other, eventually <3


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